MYSTERY  or 


\  L 


UC-NRLF 


Ml    DMfl 


By 

Albert 
Big  clow 
Paine 


Hypnotic 

Story 


~t*-j~^_i 

a 


- 


f- 


THE    MYSTERY 


OF 


EVELIN    DELORME 


A    HYPNOTIC    STORY 


BY 

ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 


BOSTON 

ARENA  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPLEY   SQUARE 
I894 


r  A.  B.  PAINE* 
Mil 'fights  reserved  .', 


Arena  Press 


2. 


To  HENRY  J.  FLETCHER. 


M88951 


INTRODUCTION. 

WHILE  engaged  in  writing  the 
story  of  Evelin  Delorme  it  was 
my  good  fortune  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Dr.  Herbert  L. 
Flint,  the  well-known  hypnotist 
briefly  referred  to  in  chapter 
three.  The  science  of  Hypno 
tism  being  a  theme  of  absorbing 
interest  to  me,  I  eagerly  availed 
myself  of  the  opportunity  thus 
offered  for  exhaustive  investiga 
tion  of  the  subject,  and  was 
accorded  frequent  and  prolonged 
interviews  with  Dr.  Flint.  Dur 
ing  one  of  these  I  reviewed  to 
him  briefly  the  outline  of  my 
story  and  the  strange  mystery  of 
Evelin  Delorme  which  had  given 
rise  to  the  plot.  I  saw  at  once 


vi  INTRO  D  UC  TION. 

that  he  was  unusually  moved  and 
interested.  At  my  conclusion  he 
arose  hastily  and  left  the  room, 
returning  a  moment  later  with  a 
quantity  of  papers  which  proved 
to  be  an  unpublished  memoir  which 
he  was  then  preparing.  From 
this  he  hurriedly  separated  sev 
eral  sheets  and  placed  them  in 
my  hand,  remarking  with  sup 
pressed  feeling,  "Here  is  the 
missing  link  in  your  narrative." 

He  has  allowed  me  to  publish 
it  here  in  his  own  words. 

EXTRACT   FROM  THE    UNPUBLISHED 
MEMOIRS    OF    DR.    FLINT. 

"The  following  is  a  brief  ac 
count  of  a  very  curious  case  of  hyp 
notic  suggestion,  and  one  which, 
because  of  the  mystery  surround 
ing  its  final  outcome,  has  caused 
me  no  little  anxiety. 

"On  the  Qth  of  July,  1878, 
there  came  to  my  office  in  St. 
Louis  a  strikingly  beautiful  young 


INTRO  D  UCTION-. 


woman  of  evident  wealth  and  aris 
tocratic  breeding,  who  gave  her 
name  as  Eva  Delorme.  Her  dress 
indicated  recent  bereavement,  and 
her  face  impressed  me  as  being 
that  of  one  whom  death  had 
deprived  of  all  those  near  and  be 
loved.  She  stated  her  errand  at 
once,  and  briefly.  She  had  been 
pursuing  the  study  of  Mesmeric 
Sciences,  and,  believing  herself  a 
good  hypnotic  subject,  desired  that 
I  make  a  trial  with  that  end  in 
view.  A  simple  test  convinced 
me  that  she  was  susceptible  to 
hypnotic  suggestion,  and  further 
experiment  revealed  to  me  that 
she  was  one  of  the  most  perfect 
subjects  I  have  ever  known.  She 
called  again  the  day  following  and 
asked  me  if  it  were  possible, 
through  the  aid  of  hypnotism,  to 
give  to  her  a  double  personality ; 
adding  that  she  desired  to  be 
come  for  a  few  hours  a  heartless, 
haughty,  gay  woman  of  the  world 
—  precisely  opposite,  in  fact,  to 
what  she  really  appeared.  Believ 
ing  that  she  wished  to  forget  her 
sorrow  for  a  time,  I  assured  her 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

that  I  thought  this  might  be  ac 
complished  and  that  it  would  prob 
ably  obliterate  all  knowledge  of 
a  previous  existence  for  the  time 
being.  To  this  she  eagerly  con 
sented,  and  after  some  further 
conversation  concerning  the  de 
tails  I  asked  her  what  name  she 
desired  to  assume  in  her  new 
character.  She  replied  that  her 
full  name  was  Evelin  March 
Delorme,  of  which,  in  her  assumed 
personality,  she  would  retain  the 
first  two.  She  likewise  gave  me 
a  memorandum  of  a  street  and 
number  to  which  she  was  to  be 
directed ;  this  being,  doubtless, 
one  of  several  of  her  dwelling 
properties,  for  she  impressed  me 
always  as  a  person  of  abundant 
wealth.  With  a  few  passes  I 
then  placed  her  under  the  hyp 
notic  influence,  and  while  in  this 
state  I  impressed  upon  her  earn 
estly  the  fact  that  she  would 
awaken  a  haughty  and  heartless 
woman  of  the  world,  dashing  and 
gay,  free  from  past  regrets  and 
future  misgivings,  as  she  had  told 
me  to  do.  That  her  name  would 


INTR  OD  UC  TION. 


be  Evelin  March ;  and  I  repeated 
to  her  the  street  and  number, 
and  some  minor  details  which 
she  had  given  to  me.  That  she 
would  retain  this  personality  for 
twelve  hours.  This  I  repeated  to 
her  several  times,  then  bade  her 
awaken. 

"The  change  in  her  was  com 
plete  and  startling.  Her  whole 
expression  —  even  her  very  feat 
ures —  appeared  altered.  Accus 
tomed  as  I  am  to  such  things  I 
could  not  avoid  feeling  somewhat 
nervous  at  this  wonderful  trans 
formation.  In  her  new  character 
she  was  as  beautiful  and  impe 
rious  as  a  queen,  with  a  supercili 
ous,  almost  coarse,  expression  of 
countenance.  She  seemed  much 
mortified  at  the  somber  simpleness 
of  her  dress,  and  I  judge  went 
immediately  to  make  changes. 

"  I  did  not  see  her  again  until 
a  week  later,  when  she  came  to 
my  office,  apparently  restored  to 
her  true  character.  She  had  a 
vague  semi-recollection  of  what 
had  been  her  experience  in  the 
other  state  and  desired  a  second 


INTRODUCTION. 


trial,  to  which  I  somewhat  reluct 
antly  consented,  though  I  must 
confess  I  was  by  this  time  deeply 
interested  in  the  case. 

"These  transformations  were 
frequently  repeated,  during  the 
next  few  months ;  then  her  visits 
ceased  and  I  did  not  see  her  until 
a  year  later,  when  I  was  astounded 
one  day  to  meet  her  riding  in  For 
est  Park  in  her  assumed  character, 
evidently  having  taken  on  the 
condition  unaided,  either  uncon 
sciously  or  of  her  own  volition. 

"  I  never  saw  her  again,  and  as 
I  had  mislaid  the  memorandum  of 
her  address  and  the  number  had 
slipped  my  memory,  I  lost  trace 
of  her  entirely.  I  have  always 
felt  a  great  and  somewhat  guilty 
curiosity  as  to  the  final  result  of 
this  strange  experiment." 


THE    MYSTERY 


OF 


EVEL1N     DELORME. 


PROLOGUE. 

JULIAN  PAUL  GOETZE  died 
December  2  ist,  1885.  This  event 
removed  the  final  reason  for  con 
cealment  of  that  strange  story 
whose  dark  reality  flung  a  shadow 
about  his  later  years. 

At  his  death  Goetze  was  in  his 
thirty-fifth  year,  and  for  more 
than  a  decade  previous  had  been 
considered  one  of  the  foremost 
portrait  painters  of  the  younger 
school.  I  knew  him  intimately 
—  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  his 
studio,  and,  I  believe,  the  only 


12  ,  ,  ,    (,    77/£  MYSTERY  OF 


confidant  'he  Was  ever   known   to 


'  As  I  recall  those  'years  there  is 
an  unreality  about  them  that  I  am 
unable  to  dispel.  The  problems 
discussed  —  the  theories  main 
tained  of  life,  death,  art,  poetry, 
and  any  number  of  other  unfath- 
omed  subjects,  appear  to  me 
now  so  preternatural  —  the  con 
ceptions  of  his  wonderful  brain  so 
startling,  that  I  can  hardly  real 
ize  having  ever  been  a  part,  even 
though  but  a  faint  reflex,  of  that 
dazzling  and  unsated  life. 

In  appearance  he  was  no  less 
remarkable.  His  figure  was  rather 
slight  than  otherwise,  and  of 
medium  height.  His  features, 
though  greatly  modified,  were 
distinctly  those  of  the  Ameri 
can  Indian.  High  cheek  bones, 
slightly  aquiline  nose,  dark  olive 
skin.  His  eyes  and  hair  were  a 
blue  black.  You  would  hardly 


EVELIN  DELORME.  13 

have  called  him  handsome,  but 
there  was  something  in  that 
fiercely  intense  face,  in  the  lithe 
grace  of  movement,  in  the  small 
and  exquisitely  shaped  hands 
and  feet,  that  made  him  a  fasci 
nating,  if  not  a  dangerous,  com 
panion  for  the  other  sex.  All 
of  these  had  been  bequeathed  him 
by  his  mother,  in  whose  veins  ran 
the  French  and  Indian  blood  in 
equal  parts.  From  his  father,  a 
fair-haired  German,  he  had  inher 
ited  only  his  name. 

His  nature  was  a  strange  blend 
ing  of  opposing  forces,  forever  at 
civil  war  and  each  swaying  him  in 
turn.  He  had  few  friends,  but 
those  few  adored  him  for  his 
splendid  genius  and  prodigal  gen 
erosity,  pitying  his  darker  side. 

When,  as  not  unfrequently 
happened,  he  locked  his  studio 
and  plunged  for  days  into  abject 
depravity,  they  sought  him  out  and 


14  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

led  htm  back  to  his  better  self. 
After  the  culmination  of  that  sin 
gular  affair  narrated  in  these 
papers,  and  for  which  he  doubtless 
felt  himself  greatly  to  blame,  these 
lapses  became  more  and  more  fre 
quent  and  protracted.  The  facts 
which  I  have  collected  relating  to 
this  period  of  his  life  were  many 
of  them  gathered  bit  by  bit  as  the 
events  occurred,  and  later  from 
brief  interviews  during  temporary 
periods  of  consciousness  just  prior 
to  his  death. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  that  he 
apprised  me  of  the  existence  of 
certain  private  papers,  the  con 
tents  of  which  would  make  the 
chain  of  circumstances  complete. 
Then  the  fires  that  had  blazed 
forever  within  him  burned  out  his 
life.  H.  L. 

ST.  Louis,  Nov.  4th,  1890. 

NOTE    BY    THE   AUTHOR.  —  The  above, 
accompanied  by  a  manuscript  roll  of  con- 


EVELIN  DELORME.  15 

siderable  size,  a  crumpled  and  yellow  letter 
torn  in  halves,  and  a  number  of  loose  pages 
covered  with  peculiar  writing  (unsigned, 
though  evidently  the  work  of  the  unhappy 
artist)  lie  before  me.  It  is  with  hesitating 
and  unsteady  hands  that  I  separate  these 
silent  voices  of  the  past,  and  gather  them 
at  last  together  into  a  living  though 
unworthy  echo  of  my  own. 


16  THE  MYSTERY  OF 


I. 

"A  LITTLE  more  to  the  light, 
please  —  so;  that  is  better."  The 
artist  worked  rapidly ;  now  and 
then  letting  his  eyes  rest  for  a 
moment  on  his  sitter,  then  return 
ing  to  the  face  on  the  canvas,  that 
was  rapidly  growing  under  his 
hands. 

The  studio,  a  small  Swiss  cot 
tage  some  distance  from  the  busi 
ness  center  of  St.  Louis,  was 
rather  richly,  though  plainly,  fur 
nished.  The  walls  were  tinted  a 
neutral  gray,  an  occasional  piece 
of  sober-hued  drapery  hung  here 
and  there,  while  a  heavily  cur 
tained  arch  at  the  back  connected 
with  the  artist's  private  apart 
ments  beyond. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room  a  door  opened  to  the  little 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  17 

entrance  hall,  and  near  to  this 
doorway  was  a  carved  oaken  man 
tel,  above  which  were  grouped 
together  a  number  of  curious 
weapons,  evidently  gathered  here 
and  there  as  bric-a-brac,  and  used, 
perhaps,  now  and  then,  as  proper 
ties,  in  the  arrangement  of  some 
picture. 

There  was  the  long-barreled 
and  elaborately  ornamented  gun 
of  the  Arab  —  the  scimitar  of  the 
Turk  —  the  blow-gun  of  the  South 
American  Indian  —  the  bow  and 
arrow  of  his  northern  brother. 
At  the  bottom  of  this  array  was  a 
pair  of  French  rapiers  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  blades 
were  crossed  and  rested  upon  a 
brass-headed  nail,  and  upon  this 
nail  there  hung,  point  downward,  a 
jewel-hilted  Italian  stiletto  or  dag 
ger,  suspended  by  a  silken  cord. 

The  room  was  lighted  by  a  sky 
light  and  one  window  —  only  the 


18  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

light  of  the  former  falling  upon 
the  sitter  —  a  large  Japanese 
screen  diverting  all  other  direct 
rays.  Through  the  half-open 
casement  a  light  breath  of  sum 
mer  crept  in,  from  the  little  gar 
den  outside,  freighted  with  the 
mingled  odors  of  sweet-briar  and 
white  flowering  locust.  A  yel 
low  butterfly  flitted  in  and  out, 
now  and  then  making  a  circuit  of 
the  room,  resting  here  and  there 
for  a  moment  to  fan  noiselessly 
with  its  bloomy  wings.  A  stray 
bee  buzzed  drowsily  in,  but,  find 
ing  nothing  so  attractive  as  the 
sweets  without,  hastily  retreated, 
striking  heavily  against  the  win 
dow-pane,  where  it  sputtered  and 
fumed  for  a  time,  and  gladly 
escaped.  Then  all  was  silent  in 
the  room  save  for  the  light  chaf 
ing  sound  made  by  the  artist's 
brush  against  the  hitherto  un 
touched  canvas. 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  19 

He  at  the  easel  was  a  man  of 
about  thirty  years — Julian  Paul 
Goetze,  a  name  already  ranked 
high  among  his  profession.  His 
sitter  was  a  woman  of  perhaps 
twenty-three.  Her  figure  was 
somewhat  above  medium  height 
and  perfectly  developed.  She 
was  clad  in  a  plain,  trimly  fitting 
dress  of  silver  gray,  with  a  neat 
white  collar  at  the  throat.  Her 
face  was  a  perfect  oval  in  its  con 
tour,  her  complexion  almost  child 
ish  in  its  delicacy.  Her  hair, 
a  silky  brown  in  color,  was  fast 
ened  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
shapely  head,  while  in  front  it 
was  a  fluffy  mass  that  partially 
concealed  the  forehead,  and  softly 
shadowed  what  seemed  to  the 
artist  to  be  the  sweetest  face  in 
all  the  world.  The  features  were 
as  delicately  chiseled  as  one 
would  expect  to  find  them  in  a 
statue  of  Purity.  The  eyes  were 


20  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

a  deep  gray,  inclining  to  hazel, 
and  the  coloring  of  the  cheek  and 
lips  so  tender  that  the  artist 
looked  a  little  despairingly  at  the 
tints  upon  his  palette;  while 
through  all  there  pervaded  such 
an  expression  of  absolute  inno 
cence  and  freedom  from  the 
world's  taint,  as  to  find  expression 
in  but  the  one  word,  saintliness. 

And  yet   there   was   something 

j  & 

about  the  face  of  his  sitter  that 
brought  a  troubled  expression  to 
that  of  the  artist.  As  with  bold, 
rapid  strokes  he  laid  in  the  ground 
work  for  the  hair  he  looked  puz 
zled.  As  he  traced  the  exquisite 
outline  of  the  ear  his  look  was 
almost  one  of  vexation.  Once  he 
left  his  easel,  and,  going  to  an 
other  canvas  that  rested  on  the 
floor,  face  to  the  wall,  he  turned 
it  partly  about  and  looked  at  it 
intently  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
he  resumed  his  work,  evidently 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  MR.  2 1 

in  deep  thought.  For  awhile  he 
painted  on  in  silence.  He  was 
inclined  by  nature  to  be  diffident 
at  first  with  his  sitters,  and  with 
this  fair  being  the  beginning  of  a 
conversation  seemed  to  him  a 
thing  as  difficult  as  it  was  desira 
ble.  There  was  a  suggestion  of 
wearkiess  in  her  face,  too,  which 
he  felt  would  disappear  with 
awakened  interest. 

"I  —  I  beg  pardon,"  he  said, 
somewhat  abruptly  at  length ; 
"have  you  ever  had  a  portrait 
before  ? " 

His  voice  was  rich  and  musical, 
and  the  face  before  him  bright 
ened. 

"Oh,  no!  And  it  is  only  by 
accident  that  I  am  having  one 
now.  I  was  passing  and  saw  your 
name;  I  knew  it  by  reputation, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  all  at  once 
that  I  would  sit  for  my  picture. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  waited  and 


22  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

worn  a  different  dress.  It  was 
only  a  passing  impulse.  It  never 
occurred  to  me  before ;  I  cannot 
tell  why  it  did  now." 

The  animation  and  the  faint 
blush  that  had  crept  over  her  face 
while  she  spoke  were  enchanting. 
The  artist  was  delighted. 

"Your  dress  could  not  have 
been  better  chosen,  and  the 
impulse  was  surely  an  inspira 
tion,"  he  said,  smiling;  "and  per 
haps,"  he  added,  "you  may  have 
a  friend  or  —  a  —  a  relative  who 
has  had,  or —  is  having  a  portrait, 
which  suggested  the  idea." 

As  he  paused  he  looked  at  her 
inquiringly.  The  look  of  weari 
ness  had  returned  to  her  face. 

"No;  I  have  no  relatives, 
and"— she  blushed  deeply  arid 
was  silent. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  earn 
estly ;  "I  did  not  intend  to  be 
inquisitive." 


E  VEL  IN  DEL  OR  ME.  23 

She  did  not  reply  in  words,  but 
as  she  lifted  her  eyes  there  was  a 
tenderness  there  that  awakened 
within  him  all  the  sympathy,  the 
nobleness  and  the  affection  of  his 
purer  and  better  nature.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  in  a  single  moment 
there  was  formed  between  them 
an  invisible  bond  which  both  felt 
and  neither  sought  to  conceal. 
No  word  was  spoken.  The  artist 
painted  on  in  silence  ;  but  a  new 
light  had  come  into  his  sitter's 
face,  and  a  new  source  of  inspira 
tion  into  his  own  heart. 

For  a  long  time  neither  spoke. 
A  dreamy  hush  seemed  to  creep 
in  with  the  sweet  odors  from  the 
garden,  and,  with  them,  a  summer 
restfulness  and  peace.  The  yel 
low  butterfly  that  had  been  hover 
ing  about  them,  flitting  this  way 
and  that,  came  closer  and  closer, 
and  at  last  settled  fearlessly  upon 
one  of  the  gloved  hands  that  lay 


24  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

folded  in  the  sitter's  lap.  She 
watched  it  for  a  moment,  then 
looked  up  at  the  painter  with  a 
smile. 

"The  insect  has  a  true  in 
stinct,"  he  said,  gently;  "it  has 
no  fear  of  capture." 

"No;  I  should  only  hurt  it  and 
destroy  its  beauty." 

"Butterflies,"  said  the  artist, 
"are  like  beautiful  thoughts. 
They  hover  mistily  about  us, 
flitting  away  whenever  we  attempt 
to  capture  them  ;  and  if  at  last  we 
are  successful  we  find  only  too 
often  that  their  wings  have  lost 
the  delicacy  of  their  bloom." 

"Yes;  I  have  felt  that  many 
times." 

While  she  spoke  the  insect 
rose  hastily  in  the  air  as  if  fright 
ened,  and,  circling  about  for  a 
moment  above  them,  darted  out 
through  the  open  window. 

"I  have  heard  they  are  emblems 


E  VELIN  DELORME.  25 

of  inconstancy,  too,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully,  as  it  disappeared. 

A  faint  glow  of  crimson  suf 
fused  for  an  instant  the  olive  face 
before  her,  but  he  forced  a  smile 
and  did  not  reply. 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon 
slipped  away  with  but  little  inter 
change  of  words  between  artist 
and  sitter.  When  either  spoke 
the  words  were  few  and  simple, 
but  there  was  a  tenderness  in 
their  voices  that  uttered  more 
than  the  spoken  syllables. 

The  face  on  the  canvas  was 
growing  rapidly.  He  had  already 
worked  longer  than  he  usually 
did  at  the  first  sitting,  and  yet  he 
could  not  bear  to  let  her  go.  He 
had  seen  her  for  the  first  time 
less  than  two  hours  before ;  he  did 
not  even  know  her  name.  The 
little  white  card  which  she  had 
given  him  he  had  glanced  at  with 
out  reading.  He  had  only  seen 


26  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

her  features,  and  heard  only  the 
gentle  voice  that  had  made  known 
her  errand.  And  now  he  won 
dered  if  it  were  possible  that  only 
a  few  hours  before  she  had  had  no 
part  in  his  life ;  a  life  wherein 
there  had  been  many  lights  and 
shadows,  and  the  shadows  had 
been  ever  as  broad  and  somber  as 
the  lights  had  been  bold  and 
brilliant. 


E  VEL  IN  DEL  OR  ME.  27 


II. 


AN  hour  later  Julian  Goetze 
was  standing  alone  in  his  studio. 
The  sketch  fresh  from  his  brush 
was  before  him,  and  beneath  it, 
resting  upon  the  floor,  was  another 
somewhat  farther  advanced. 

He  had  painted  until  the  light 
had  begun  to  grow  yellow  and 
dim,  then  he  had  reluctantly  told 
his  sitter  that  he  could  do  no 
more  for  that  day. 

"And  when  shall  I  come 
again?"  she  had  asked. 

He  would  have  said,  "  Come 
to-morrow,"  had  he  dared;  but 
remembering  other  engagements, 
and  knowing  that  the  work  could 
not  be  continued  so  soon,  he  had 
hesitated  before  replying. 


28  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"I  can  go  on  with  the  picture 
in  two  or  three  clays  ;  come  as 
soon  after  that  as — as  you  wish," 
he  said,  softly. 

Their  eyes  met  for  a  moment ; 
the  delicate  color  deepened  in  her 
cheeks,  her  lips  murmured  a  half 
inaudible  word  of  adieu,  and  she 
was  gone. 

Julian  left  alone  had  flung  him 
self  into  a  large  chair  that  stood 
near  the  window,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  little  garden  beyond.  It 
was  June.  The  days  were  long 
and  the  sun  was  still  touching  the 
tops  of  the  locust  trees.  He  was 
away  from  the  bustle  of  the  city, 
and  an  atmosphere  of  peace  almost 
like  that  of  the  country  was  about 
him.  All  at  once  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  pressing  his 
fingers  hard  into  his  eyes. 

"I  love  her,  I  love  her,"  he 
groaned  ;  "  she  is  an  angel  from 
heaven,  and  I — oh,  my  God!  if 
she  knew  she  would  hate  me." 


EVELIN  DELORME.  29 

He  rose  and  stood  before  the 
face  on  the  easel ;  then,  as  if  sud 
denly  recollecting,  he  approached 
the  canvas  that  was  turned  face  to 
the  wall,  and  which  once  before 
that  day  had  claimed  his  attention, 
and,  facing  it  nervously  about, 
placed  it  beneath  the  other. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  woman. 
Like  the  one  above  her,  she  was 
fair  and  beautiful ;  but  here  all 
resemblance  apparently  ceased. 
Nothing  could  be  more  widely 
different  than  the  characters  that 
had  stamped  themselves  upon  the 
faces  of  these  two. 

The  picture  on  the  floor  was 
that  of  a  woman  whose  age  might 
be  anywhere  from  twenty-five  to 
thirty-five ;  a  woman  of  the  great 
world  of  fashion,  of  folly,  of 
intrigue,  perhaps  of  vice.  Her 
dress  was  a  rich  ball  costume, 
exposing  the  white  flesh  of  her 
beautiful  arms,  her  perfect  shoul- 


30  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

ders,  and  her  pearly  tinted  throat 
and  bosom.  Like  the  other,  her 
face  was  oval  in  shape,  but  seemed 
less  perfect  in  its  contour.  There 
was  a  certain  lack  of  delicacy  and 
softness  about  the  outline  that 
suggested  the  fierce  chase  after 
the  sham  pleasures  of  the  great 
social  world. 

The  rest  of  the  features  were 
in  harmony  with  this  idea.  The 
beautiful  mouth  was  hard  and 
cruel.  The  lips  and  cheeks  were 
bright  as  if  artificially  tinted,  or 
flushed  with  wine.  The  eyes 
were  bold  and  the  pupils  seemed 
expanded  as  with  belladonna. 
The  nostrils  of  the  finely  shaped 
nose  were  full  and  sensual.  Her 
luxuriant  brown  hair,  singularly 
like  that  of  the  portrait  above  her 
in  color,  she  wore  in  the  late  French 
mode,  combed  back  from  her  high, 
broad  forehead  and  twisted  into  a 
massive  device  at  the  top.  Her 


EVELIN  DELORME,  31 

eyebrows  were  unnaturally  dark. 
An  artificial  air  pervaded  the 
entire  picture  —  one  felt  that  she 
had  an  artificial  soul.  A  perfect 
prototype  of  Folly's  feverish  and 
heartless  world. 

As  the  artist  stood  gazing  from 
one  to  the  other,  the  curious  vexed 
and  puzzled  expression  that  had 
come  into  his  face  once  before 
that  day  returned.  He  approached 
closely  to  the  work  as  if  to  examine 
it  more  minutely.  As  he  bent 
low  over  the  face  on  the  easel  he 
heard  the  street  door  open.  He 
started  guiltily,  and  hastily  turned 
both  pictures  to  the  wall.  A 
moment  later  a  tall,  fair-haired 
man  of  about  his  own  age  entered 
without  knocking.  It  was  Harry 
Lawton,  the  artist's  most  intimate 
friend. 

"Julian,  old  boy,  how  goes  it  ?" 
he  said,  cheerily. 

"  Pretty  well,  Harry  ;  come  in." 


32  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"  Yes,  I  should  do  that  any  way. 
I  don't  seem  to  be  any  too  wel 
come,  hqwever." 

"  Nonsense,  Harry,  of  course 
you  are  welcome  ;  I  am  very  glad, 
in  fact,  to  see  you,  just  now." 

"Well,  that's  better;  although 
I  must  say  your  face  doesn't  indi 
cate  excessive  joy." 

"Sit  down;  not  there — here 
by  the  door ;  I  want  to  show  you 
something." 

"Oh,  some  new  and  wonderful 
work  of  your  transcendent  genius, 
I  suppose.  By  the  way,  how  is 
the  picture  for  the  Salon  getting 
along  ? " 

"Tediously,  Harry;  I  seem  to 
have  lost  the  spirit  of  the  thing." 

"  Found  too  much  spirit  of 
another  kind,  perhaps." 

"No,  not  that.  I  have  been  a 
model  of  abstinence  of  late." 

"  And  the  heavens  do  not  fall  ?  " 

"  No  —  yes  —  that  is  —  let  your 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  33 

tongue  rest  for  a  moment,  please, 
and  use  your  eyes." 

While  the  artist  had  been  speak 
ing  he  had  taken  the  large  screen 
from  before  the  window  and 
moved  his  easel  into  a  stronger 
light.  Upon  it  he  now  placed  the 
two  portraits  in  their  former  posi 
tion.  The  effect  upon  the  other 
was  vigorous  and  immediate. 

"  Heavens  !  Julian,  where  did 
you  get  that  angel  and  that  dev  — 
I  beg  pardon,  that  extraordinary 
pair  of  beauties?  Oh,  I  see!  — 
why,  of  course  !  a  new  idea  for  the 
Salon.  A  modern  Guinevere  and 
Elaine ;  Siren  and  Saint ;  Sense 
and  Innocence.  I  congratulate 
you,  old  boy ;  they  are  wonder 
ful  "- 

"Please  be  quiet  for  a  moment, 
Harry;  they  are  not  for  the 
Salon.  They  are  two  sitters  of 
mine.  The  one  beneath  has  been 
here  twice  —  the  first  time  about 


34  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

a  week  ago  ;  the  second  time  day 
before  yesterday.  The  other 
came  for  the  first  time  to-day." 

"And  they  are  real,  live 
women,  then  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  was  in  hopes  you 
might  recognize  one  or  both  of 
them." 

The  other  shook  his  head,  and 
gazed  from  one  to  the  other  in 
silence. 

"Do  you  see  any  —  any  resem 
blance  between  them  ?  "  asked  the 
artist,  after  a  pause. 

"Resemblance!  Good  Lord, 
no !  Why  ?  Are  they  related 
in  any  way  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  am  aware  of ;  in 
fact,  I  am  quite  sure  they  are  not. 
She  told  me  she  had  no  rela 
tives." 

"  Um  —  and  which  do  you 
refer  to  as  she  ?" 

"Oh,  the  upper  one,  of  course." 

"Well,    I    don't    see    any    'of 


EVE  LIN  DEL  OR  ME.  35 

course '  about  it.  She  was  here 
to-day  for  the  first  time.  I  don't 
see  why  she  should  begin  by 
exchanging  family  confidences. 
All  things  considered,  I  should 
have  thought  it  more  than  likely 
you  referred  to  the  other.  How 
ever,  I  suppose  you  are  famil 
iar  with  her  family  history,  too." 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,  Harry.  I 
know  nothing  of  either  of  them  ; 
at  least  not  in  that  way.  The 
one  who  came  first  gave  her 
name  as  Evelin  March.  She 
came  in  suddenly,  one  morning 
last  week,  and  asked  for  a  sit 
ting.  She  had  on  a  light  wrap, 
which  she  laid  off  and  stood  be 
fore  me  as  you  see  her.  During 
the  sitting  she  was  inclined  to  be 
lively  and  talkative.  Her  voice 
is  just  a  trifle  harsh,  but  she  is  a 
remarkably  brilliant  talker  and  a 
very  fascinating  woman.  I  had 
not  met  the  other,  then,  and  fool- 


36  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

ishly  allowed  myself  to  say  some 
rather  silly  things  to  her.  When 
she  came  again  I  did  more.  You 
know  what  a  rash  fool  I  am, 
Harry.  Well,  I  made  love  to 
her,  off-hand.  She  stirred  me 
up  terribly  for  some  reason.  Of 
course,  there  was  nothing  of  real 
love  in  what  I  felt  for  her ;  it  was 
a  brief  madness  of  the  head. 
You  know  about  what  I  would 
say  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  perfectly.  You  swore 
that  her  eyes  were  as  arc  lights  in 
a  midnight  desert ;  that  her  tints 
would  rival  the  roseate  pearl  of  a 
June  sunset;  that  her  smiles 
would  be  your  only  diet  hence 
forth  and  forever ;  that  her  frown 
would  be  as  terrible  as  the  day  of 
judgment.  And  now  what  has 
the  other  one  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Lawton,  you  will  think  I  am 
crazy,  and  I  am,  perhaps  —  but  I 
love  her;  and  more  than  that,  I 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  37 

believe  she  loves  me.  No  word 
of  it  has  passed  between  us,  but 
—  we  understand." 

"Oh,  we  do,  eh?  We  —  we 
understand,"  imitated  Lawton. 
"Well,  this  is  exceedingly  interest 
ing,  I  must  say,  although  quite 
the  thing  to  be  expected  from  one 
of  your  temperament.  How  very 
fortunate  you  are  in  the  choice  of 
subjects,  too." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Harry?" 

"Well,  I  should  judge  you 
might  divide  up  your  affections 
on  those  two  without  any  serious 
confliction  of  sentiments." 

"You  are  mistaken,  though;  I 
do  not  care  for  Evelin  March  at 
all,  now.  I  am  sorry  I  ever  met 
her.  I  shall  stop  this  foolish 
flirtation  with  her,  at  once." 

"  Quite  likely.  And  when  does 
Evelin  come  again  ?  " 

"To-morrow,  perhaps." 

"So;    well,    I'll    just    drop    in 


38  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

to-morrow  evening  for  the  latest. 
Evelin  seems  to  be  a  trifle  out 
classed  just  at  present." 

"Harry,  you  are  unkind.  I 
tell  you  I  love  that  innocent  girl 
on  the  easel  there  and  mean  to 
marry  her." 

"Oh,  of  course;  I  haven't  the 
least  doubt  of  it.  And  now,  what 
about  the  resemblance?" 

"Why,  look!  do  you  see  their 
hair?  The  shade  of  each  is 
exactly  the  same — the  same  silk- 
mess  and  glow  through  it ;  it  is 
very  peculiar.  And  notice  the 
ear;  the  outline  and  formation  of 
each  is  identical.  You  may  not 
have  noticed  these  things  as  I 
have,  but  it  is  very  rare  that  the 
ear  is  anatomically  the  same  in 
two  people.  There  is  a  simi 
larity,  too,  about  the  oval  of  the 
face,  although  less  marked  and 
not  unusual ;  and  there  \s  a  faint 
suggestion  of  something  else, 


EVELIN  DELORME. 


which  I  feel  but  cannot  locate. 
I  noticed  these  things,  and  they 
struck  me  at  once  as  being  a  tie 
of  kinship.  I  hinted,  in  a  miser 
ably  awkward  manner,  as  to  rela 
tives  who  might  be  having  their 
portraits  painted.  It  was  then 
she  told  me  that  she  had  no 
relatives,  and  I  believe  started  to 
tell  me  she  had  no  friends,  but 
she  hesitated  and  was  near  burst 
ing  into  tears.  From  that  mo 
ment  I  loved  her ;  I  shall  love  her 
always." 

"  Charming,  Julian.  And  yet 
I  fancy  she  is  not  wholly  alone  in 
the  world.  A  beautiful  and  afflu 
ent  maiden  is  not  calculated  to  be 
friendless;  and  you  will  admit 
that  one  who  is  able  to  gratify  a 
passing  impulse  for  one  of  Julian 
Paul  Goetze's  justly  celebrated 
portraits  is  not  likely  to  be  desti 
tute.  Still,  I  will  allow  that  there 
are  cases,  even  among  the  wealthy, 


40  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

that  are  not  entirely  undeserv 
ing  of  .sympathy  ;  and,  if  I  may 
judge  from  this  incipient  work 
of  your  magic  brush,  I  think  I 
should  be  willing  to  lavish  any 
amount  of  that  article  on  its  orig 
inal.  However,  you  haven't  told 
me  her  name  as  yet  ;  I  trust  it  is 
not  disappointing." 

"I  do  not  even  know  it  myself. 
She  gave  me  her  card  ;  I  laid  it 
down  and  haven't  thought  of  it 
since." 

"Well,  really,  if  your  love  is  no 
greater  than  your  curiosity,  your 
case  does  not  present  any  very 
alarming  features,  as  yet." 

The  artist  had  approached  a 
small  table  in  the  center  of  the 
room,  from  which  he  now  picked 
up  a  slip  of  white  pasteboard  and 
held  it  to  the  light,  then  he  started 
a  little  and  was  silent. 

"Well  ?  "  said  his  friend,  inquir 
ingly;  "is  it  Mary  Mullally  or 
Nancy  Muggins  ?" 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  41 

The  artist  turned  to  the  table 
again  and  selected  another  card, 
somewhat  larger,  from  a  little 
silver  tray ;  then  he  returned  to 
Lawton  and  held  them  before  him, 
one  above  the  other,  like  the  pic 
tures.  On  the  lower  one,  written 
in  a  bold,  dashing  hand,  were  the 
words  : 

EVELIN  MARCH. 

And  on  the  other,  in  a  neat  and 
beautiful  penmanship : 

EVA  DELORME. 

"  Capital,  old  fellow  !"  exclaimed 
Lawton.  "  There  is  an  air  of  har 
mony  about  the  name,  the  hand 
writing,  and  the  face  of  your 
charmer  that  is  delightful.  What 
a  blessing  she  has  no  relatives." 

"But  do  you  notice  nothing 
strange  about  these  names, 
Harry  ?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  both  are 
strangely  bewitching.  What  more 
is  there  ?" 


42  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"Why,  the  similarity  of  the 
first  names.  Eva —  Evelin  ;  one 
is  frequently  a  contraction  of  the 
other.  I  don't  like  this,  Harry; 
it  troubles  me." 

"Now,  Julian,  you  are  posi 
tively  absurd.  Here  are  two 
women  of  natures  manifestly  as 
different  as  light  and  darkness. 
By  a  coincidence,  or  a  distant 
family  tie,  or  both,  their  hair  hap 
pens  to  be  the  same  color  (not  a 
very  unusual  one,  either,  by  the 
way) ;  a  similarity  in  their  names  ; 
also,  perhaps,  one  or  two  other 
trifling  resemblances,  more  or  less 
marked.  I  will  admit,  myself, 
that  there  is  something  in  the 
face  of  that  siren  that  had  she 
kept  herself  unspotted  from  the 
world  might  have  suggested  the 
other  —  that  rare  being  there  on 
the  easel  who  told  you  she  had  no 
relatives  or  friends,  and  for  which 
reason  you  are  deeply  troubled. 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  43 

It  is  probable  she  told  you  the 
exact  truth.  I  have  seen  people 
who  were  almost  counterparts  of 
each  other  between  whom  there 
existed  no  known  tie  of  kinship. 
There  was  once  a  man  in  New 
York  who  resembled  Jay  Gould 
so  strikingly  as  to  deceive  their 
best  friends.  And  besides,  the 
girl  may  have  relatives  of  whom 
she  knows  nothing.  Most  of  us 
have  cousins  whom  we  have  never 
seen,  or  even  heard  of.  Should 
Guinevere  prove  to  be  the 
unknown  cousin  of  Elaine,  I  can 
not  see  that  the  purity  and  charm 
of  Elaine  is  in  any  manner  affected 
thereby." 

"Yes,  Harry;  that  is  so. 
Besides  "  — 

"Besides,  the  resemblance  is 
positively  trivial.  No  one  but 
an  artist  would  think  of  it.  I 
should  never  have  suspected  it 
without  your  assistance.  In  the 


44  TffE  MYSTERY  OF 

one  face  there  is  written  all  that 
is   good,  and    pure,    and    holy ;  in 
the    other,    all    that    is    reckless, 
unscrupulous,  soulless,  and  if  not 
vicious   might    easily    become    so. 
It  does  not  take  a  physiognomist 
to    see    that.      I    beg    pardon    for 
saying  so,  Julian,  but  it  seems   to 
me  that  there  is  no  more  similarity 
between    the    two    than    there    is 
between  the  opposing  elements  of 
your    own    strange    nature.     The 
one  all  that  is  good,  and  the  other, 
well  —  not    all    that    is     bad,    but 
very  different,  you  know,  old  boy. 
And   it  is   probably   these    forces 
within    you    that    answer    to    the 
charms  of  these  two  beings  who 
are  so  manifestly  opposites.      The 
one  inspiring  only  the   nobleness 
of    a    blameless    love ;    the    other 
suggesting  the  abandonment  of  a 
reckless  passion." 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  45 


III. 

THE  light  in  the  studio  was 
growing  dim.  Goetze  had  risen 
to  his  feet  and  was  walking  back 
and  forth  in  front  of  the  portraits. 
When  he  spoke  he  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  them,  except  as  the 
representation  of  an  abstract  prin 
ciple  ;  or,  perhaps,  he  was  think 
ing  of  his  own  nature,  and  what 
his  friend  had  said  of  it. 

"Good  and  bad  are  relative 
terms  only,"  he  said,  as  one  pro 
nouncing  a  text.  "  Every  man 
fulfills  his  purpose.  I  can  put  a 
stroke  of  paint  on  my  canvas,  and 
you  will  call  it  white.  I  put 
another  beside  it,  and  by  contrast 
the  first  appears  gray.  Still 
another,  and  the  second  has  be 
come  gray,  and  the  first  still 


46  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

darker.  And  so  on,  until  I  have 
reached  the  purest  white  we 
know.  It  is  the  same  with  human 
ity.  Men  are  only  dark  or  light 
as  they  are  contrasted  with  others  ; 
nor  can  they  avoid  the  place  they 
occupy  on  God's  canvas  any  more 
than  my  colors  can  choose  their 
places  on  mine.  The  world  is  a 
great  picture.  God  is  the  great 
est  of  all  artists.  His  is  the  mas 
ter  hand  —  the  unerring  touch 
that  lays  on  the  lights,  the  half 
tones  and  the  shadows.  Each 
fulfills  its  purpose.  Without  the 
shadows  there  would  be  no  lights. 
"  What  is  true  of  masses  is  like 
wise  true  of  individuals,"  he  con 
tinued,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"  In  a  landscape,  every  blade  of 
grass,  every  pebble,  has  its  light 
and  its  dark  side.  If  you  see  only 
the  light  side  of  an  object,  it  is 
only  because  the  shadow  is  turned 
from  you.  It  is  so  with  men; 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  47 

one  side  is  sun,  the  other  shadow. 
Sometimes  the  light,  only,  is  pre 
sented  to  view,  but  the  darker 
side  is  none  the  less  there  because 
unseen.  Nature  is  never  unbal 
anced.  Whatever  of  brightness 
there  is  toward  the  sun  there 
must  be  an  equal  amount  of 
shadow  opposing,  with  all  the 
intergradations  between.  If  the 
light  is  dim  the  shadow  is  soft; 
if  the  light  is  brilliant  the  shadow 
is  black.  Some  of  us  are  turned 
white  side  to  the  world,  some  the 
reverse  ;  some  show  the  white  and 
the  black  alternately." 

The  man  in  the  chair  settled 
himself  comfortably  to  listen.  He 
liked  nothing  better  than  to  see  the 
artist  in  his  present  mood,  offering 
a  word  now  and  then  that  was  like 
ly  to  draw  out  his  peculiar  ideas. 

"You  believe  in  fate,  then,  and 
the  absence  of  moral  freedom,"  he 
said,  reflectively. 


48  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"  I  believe  nothing.  Belief  is 
not  the  word.  What  is,  is  right. 
To  assert  otherwise  is  an  insult 
to  the  Supreme.  He  is  all  power 
ful,  hence  — wrong  cannot  exist." 

11 1  should  be  glad  to  hear  your 
argument  in  support  of  that 
position." 

" Argument!  It  is  a  self-evi 
dent  truth  !  Argument  is  not 
necessary  !  Argument  is  never 
necessary  !  If  an  assertion  is  not 
true  no  amount  of  discussion 
will  make  it  so,  while  the  truth 
requires  no  support." 

The  other  had  lighted  a  pipe, 
and  was  smoking  lazily. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  the  artist 
paused  ;  "  at  least  those  who  have 
crossed  over  have  solved  the 
mystery." 

"  Oh,  they  have  !  And  how  do 
you  know  that  anyone  has  crossed 
over?  You  do  not  believe  in 
the  mortality  nor  the  slumber  of 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  49 

the  soul  ;  no  more  do  I  ;  but  time 
exists  only  with  life.  A  man  dies 
and  in  the  same  instant  opens  his 
eyes  upon  eternity,  and  yet  a 
million  of  years  may  have  been 
swept  away  in  that  instant.  As  a 
tired  child  you  have  fallen  asleep. 
A  moment  later  you  have  been 
called  by  your  mother  to  break 
fast.  And  yet,  in  that  moment  of 
dreamless  sleep,  the  long  winter 
night  had  passed.  Adam,  the  first 
man,  closing  his  eyes  in  death  ;  you 
ani  I,  who  will  do  the  same  ten, 
twenty,  forty  years  hence,  and  the 
generations  who  will  follow  us  for 
a  million  years,  perhaps,  will  waken 
to  eternity,  if  there  be  a  waking, 
in  one  and  the  same  instant  of 
time,  without  a  knowledge  of  the 
intervening  years.  There  were  no 
years.  Eternity  has  no  begin 
ning,  no  end,  no  measurement." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  suS- 
denly  burst  out  again. 


50  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"Nothing  in  life  is  real  —  it  is 
all  a  dream.  You  think  your 
being  is  reality  and  that  you  hear 
my  voice  speaking.  I  tell  you  it 
is  but  fancy.  We  are  the  fig 
ures —  the  mimes  in  some  vast 
hypnotic  exhibition  —  the  shad 
ows  in  some  gigantic  spirit's 
disordered  dream.  Hypnotism," 
he  continued,  pursuing  a  line  of 
thought  which*  his  impulsive  words 
had  suggested,  "  has,  in  fact, 
proven  that  no  one  can  distin 
guish  the  real  from  the  unreal. 
You  remember,  when  we  went  to 
see  Flint,  the  great  hypnotist, 
how  his  subjects  passed  from  one 
condition  to  another  and  took  on 
any  personality  at  the  operator's 
will;  capering  and  grimacing 
about  the  stage  with  all  the  char 
acteristics  and  even  the  facial 
expression  of  monkeys,  one  min- 
ut!£,  and  simpering  as  silly  school 
girls  the  next ;  and  to  them  it  was 


E  VELIN  DELORME.  5 1 

all  real  —  as  real  as  this  room, 
these  bodies,  these  pictures  are  to 
us.  I  read  some  lines  once  that 
seemed  to  express  the  idea : 

I    sometimes    think    life      but    a 

dream 
Of    some    great    soul    in    some 

great  sphere, 
And   what   appear   as   truths    but 

seem, 

And  what  seem  truths  do   but 
appear." 

He  repeated  these  words  with 
slaw  earnestness,  adding  solemnly, 
"  Who  knows  ?  Who  knows  ?  " 

The  man  who  sat  listening 
drew  a  long  breath.  He  was  a 
rich  idler  with  a  good  deal  of 
worldly  wisdom,  but  he  loved  and 
admired  his  erratic  friend.  He 
felt  that  much  of  what  he  said 
was  sophistry,  wholly  or  in  part; 
but  there  was  a  charm  about  the 
earnest  manner,  the  musical  voice, 
and  the  flashing  brevity  of  state- 


52  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

ment,  more  pleasing  to  his  ear 
than  sounder  logic  from  a  surer 
reasoner. 

It  was  nearly  dark  now  in  the 
studio.  The  artist  halted  in  his 
march,  and  offered  to  light  the 
gas. 

"Not  for  the  world,  Julian;  I 
am  far  too  happy  in  the  dark.  I 
was  just  thinking  what  a  glorious 
agitator  you  would  make ;  you 
would  carry  all  before  you.  I 
wonder  you  have  never  dabbled 
in  politics  or  socialism.  Now  I 
think  of  it,  I  have  never  heard  you 
mention  these  things.  I  suppose 
you  belong  to  one  or  the  other  of 
the  great  parties,  however." 

"  Politics  ?  Party  ?  Good  heav 
ens,  no !  I  never  meddle  with 
such  things  ;  it  is  one  step  lower 
than  I  have  ever  gone." 

"But  a  man  must  stand  some 
where.  He  that  stands  nowhere 
stands  upon  nothing." 


EVE  LIN  DEL  OR  ME.  53 

The  artist  paused  before  the 
open  window  and  stood  looking 
out  upon  the  dusk  of  the  little 
scented  garden.  A  faint  reflected 
glimmer  from  some  far-away  lamp 
dimly  illuminated  one  side  of  his 
face,  silhouetting  his  striking  pro 
file  sharply  against  a  ground  of 
blackness. 

"If  you  mean,"  he  began, 
slowly,  "that  I  should  have  some 
opinions,  then  I  will  tell  you  what 
they  are. 

"  I  believe  neither  in  tariff  nor 
trade.  Currency  nor  coin.  Traf 
fic  nor  toil.  I  believe  in  noth 
ing —  but  the  absolute  freedom  of 
every  living  being.  Freedom  !  — 
freedom  from  the  curse  of  creeds, 
the  blight  of  bigotry,  and  the 
leprosy  of  the  law.  Freedom  to 
go  and  to  come,  to  live  and  to  die. 
Life  without  loathing,  love  with 
out  bondage.  To  live  in  some 
sunlit  valley,  where  the  bud  is 


54  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

ever  bursting  into  flower,  the 
flower  fading  to  fruit,  and  the 
fruit  ripening  to  sustenance.  The 
untouched  bosom  of  Nature  would 
yield  enough  for  her  children 
had  not  the  curse  of  greed  been 
implanted  in  their  bosoms." 

Goetze  had  turned  away  from  the 
window  and  was  again  striding  up 
and  down  the  floor  in  the  dark. 

"A  beautiful  poem,  Julian," 
said  the  other,  dreamily;  "but  a 
sort  of  delightful  barbarism,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  Barbarism  ?  No  !  A  higher, 
purer  intellectuality  than  we  have 
ever  yet  known  —  a  civilization 
that  knows  not  the  curse  of  ava 
rice  nor  the  miseries  of  crime  — 
the  weariness  of  wealth  nor  the 
pangs  of  poverty.  The  garden  of 
Eden  is  still  about  us,  but  we 
have  torn  up  the  flowers,  and  des 
ecrated  it  with  the  lust  of  gain. 
Man  was  never  driven  out  of  that 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  55 

garden.  Greed  was  planted  in 
his  heart  and  he  destroyed  it. 

"Come,"  he  continued,  sud 
denly  changing  the  subject,  "  I 
have  made  you  tired  and  hungry; 
let  us  go  out,  somewhere,  to  sup 
per." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  other, 
laughing;  "I  supposed  a  man  in 
your  condition  had  no  need  of 
bodily  sustenance.  You  are  com 
fortably  situated  here,  Julian," 
he  added,  as  they  passed  out  into 
the  street. 

"Yes,  it  is  quiet  here — no 
bother  with  servants  nor  landla 
dies.  Once  a  week  my  washerwo 
man  comes  and  stays  to  put  my 
establishment  in  order;  the  rest 
of  the  time  I  am  disturbed  only 
by  my  sitters." 

"  You  forget  me." 

"Yes,  Harry,"  said  the  artist, 
taking  his  arm  affectionately; 
"and  by  you,  of  course." 


56  THE  MYSTERY  OF 


IV. 

WHEN  Julian  Goetze  arose  the 
next  morning  he  felt  strong  with 
in  himself  to  withstand  and  con 
quer  those  fierce  impulses  of  his 
savage  heritage  that  had  answered 
to  the  blandishments  of  Evelin 
March.  And  yet  he  was  greatly 
troubled.  He  felt  that  in  a  large 
measure  he  had  been  to  blame. 
He  blushed  hotly  as  he  recalled 
some  of  the  things  he  had  said 
to  this  woman  whom  Harry  had 
called  a  siren. 

"Men  are  all  scoundrels,"  he 
said,  savagely  ;  "  I  wonder  if  there 
are  really  any  who  are  not  so  at 
heart." 

He  rapidly  formulated  his  plan 
of  action,  and  even  the  sentences 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  57 

with  which  he  was  to  meet  and 
conquer  this  modern  Circe. 

"I  will  keep  Eva's  face  before 
me,"  he  thought,  "and  I  will 
treat  her  coldly.  She  is  high- 
spirited  and  keen ;  she  will  notice 
the  change  at  once  and  resent  it. 
She  is  too  proud  to  demand  an 
explanation." 

He  felt  himself  equal  to  the 
ordeal.  He  was  anxious  now  for 
her  to  come  that  it  might  be 
safely  passed.  As  the  hours  went 
by  he  grew  impatient ;  he  placed 
her  portrait  on  the  easel  and  fan 
cied  the  original  was  before  him. 
He  went  through  an  imaginary 
dialogue  with  it  in  which  he 
was  wholly  victorious.  He  no 
longer  felt  any  emotion  for  this 
woman. 

"  I  will  begin  a  new  life,"  he 
said,  as  he  strode  rapidly  up  and 
down  the  room;  "a  new  life." 
But  there  was  a  feverishness  in 


58  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

his  voice  that  did  not  bode   well 
for  his  resolution. 

"I  wish  she  would  come,"  he 
muttered,  fretfully. 

His  cheeks  were  hot  and 
flushed,  and  his  hands  were  like 
ice,  and  trembling.  And  the 

result     was  —  that      he     failed 

failed  miserably  and  completely. 
When,  an  hour  later,  Evelin  March 
entered  the  studio  and,  throwing 
off  her  wrap,  stood  before  him, 
imperious,  soulless  and  beauti 
ful  —  a  delicate  odor,  as  of  pansies, 
from  her  white  flesh,  stealing  into 
his  brain  —  his  pledges  of  faith 
and  his  fair  resolves  melted  away 
like  walls  of  mist,  and  the  face  of 
Eva  Delorme  shrank  back  into 
the  silent  recesses  of  his  heart, 
and  only  a  small  voice  within  him 
whispered,  "  Coward  —  traitor  — 
fool." 

She  glanced  at  him  sharply. 

"Something  troubles  you,  won 


E  VELIN-  DEL  OR  ME.  59 

ami.  You  are  not  overjoyed  at 
my  coming.  I  have  been  fancy 
ing  to  myself  how  impatiently  you 
were  waiting." 

His  hands  were  no  longer 
trembling.  He  was  calm  enough, 
now,  but  it  was  the  calmness  of 
defeat  —  of  having  yielded  to  the 
inevitable. 

"I  have  indeed  been  waiting 
impatiently/'  he  said,  smiling. 
"You  see  that  I  have  been  even 
consoling  myself  with  your  pic 
ture,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  easel. 

"  From  an  artistic  point  of 
view,  only,  I  fancy." 

"That  is  unkind.  I  have  been 
holding  a  conversation  with  it 
that  I  fear  I  should  hesitate  to 
repeat  —  with  the  original." 

"  How  interesting  !  A  rehearsal, 
perhaps." 

"Perhaps;  and  I  was  testing 
the  powers  of  my  work  as  com 
pared  to  those  of  the  original." 


60  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"And  with  the  result  "  — 
"That  my  work  is  a  failure." 
"How  humiliating!     May  I  ask 
in  what  way  ?  " 

"I  could  withstand  the  charms 
of  the  picture,  but  with  the  orig 
inal  " 

"Well,  and  with  the  original  ?" 
"I  failed." 

The  face  before  him  was  radi 
ant  ;  but  down  in  his  heart  the 
small  voice,  growing  very  faint, 
still  whispered,  "Coward  —  trai 
tor  —  fool." 

That    evening     Harry    Lawton 
found  him  sitting  gloomily  before 
the    window    looking    out     upon 
the  shadows  that  were   gathering 
in  the  little  garden  beneath.      As 
the   door  opened    he    glanced    up 
and  nodded  without  speaking. 
"  Circe  came  ?  " 
Again  the  artist  nodded. 
"And  conquered?" 
Another  nod. 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  61 

"Did  you  suppose  for  a  mo 
ment  that  she  wouldn't  ?  " 

No  answer. 

Lawton  assumed  a  dignified 
attitude,  and  began  with  mock 
earnestness : 

"Oh,  wise  man — thou  who 
knowest  so  well  the  heart  and 
the  face  of  Nature  —  how  little 
thou  knowest  of  thine  own 
soul!" 

A  shade  of  anguish  swept  over 
the  artist's  face,  but  he  made  no 
reply. 

"  Most  gentle  and  gifted  man  ! 
Last  night  I  listened  long  and 
patiently  to  the  scintillating  wis 
dom  of  your  wonderful  brain. 
Let  me  now  speak,  while  you,  in 
turn,  give  ear. 

"When,  last  night,  you  showed 
me  the  portraits  and  told  me 
their  history,  I  foresaw  this 
moment.  You  are  plunged  into 
despair  at  the  contemplation  of 


62  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

your  own  weakness.  You  have 
been  abusing  your  soul  with  hard 
names.  Now,  I  would  whisper  to 
you  with  great  gentleness  that 
what  you  observed  to  me  last 
night,  about  the  sunlight  and 
shadow  of  every  life,  is  true;  and 
that  the  brightness  of  the  sun 
cannot  illuminate,  but  only  inten 
sifies  the  blackness  of  the  shade. 
Pursuing  the  same  line  of  reason 
ing,  I  add  that  flowers  bloom  in 
the  sunlight,  while  mushrooms 
thrive  in  the  darkness.  That 
because  man  is  fond  of  mush 
rooms  is  no  reason  why  he  should 
be  deprived  of  flowers.  That 
because  your  purer  and  spiritual 
self  reaches  out  for  the  stainless 
lily,  is  no  reason  why  your  mate 
rial  and  grosser  nature  should  be 
left  starving.  Because  you  are 
for  a  time  intoxicated  with  Evelin 
March  is  no  reason  why,  in  your 
calmer  and  nobler  existence,  you 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  63 

should    not    love    truly    and    sin- 
lessly,  Eva  Delorme. 

"I  am  aware  that  my  logic  is 
not  wholly  in  accord  with  gener 
ally  accepted  theory.  It  accords 
much  more  nearly,  perhaps,  with 
universal  practice  —  of  course  I 
refer  only  to  men  in  the  single 
walks  of  life.  It  is  well  known 
that  all  men  after  marriage  are 
irreproachable.  And  when  you 
have  plucked  your  stainless  lily, 
you,  like  the  rest,  will  subsist 
only  upon  its  fragrance.  But 
really,  for  the  present,  I  cannot 
see  that  your  affair  with  Miss 
March  in  any  way  conflicts  with 
your  sentiments  for  Miss  Del 
orme  ;  and  especially  as  you  have 
known  the  latter  but  a  few  hours 
in  all — hardly  sufficient,  I  should 
think,  to  inspire  a  lifelong  devo 
tion.  Truly,  Julian,  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  take  matters 
quite  so  seriously,  and  let  the 


THE  MYSTERY  OF 


tide     drift     as     it     will     for     the 
present." 

Throughout  this  long  harangue 
Julian  Goetze  had  listened  in 
silence. 

"Oh,  Harry,"  he  groaned,  as 
the  other  paused,  "you  don't 
know  what  a  traitor  I  am  ! " 

"Well,  possibly  my  sensibilities 
are  not  over  fine,  but  I  think  you 
will  be  more  comfortable  for  tak 
ing  my  advice/' 

Without  replying,  the  artist 
rose  and  going  into  the  adjoining 
room  returned  a  moment  later 
with  a  decanter  and  glasses. 

"I  am  tired,"  he  said,  apologeti 
cally,  as  he  caught  the  look  of 
disapproval  in  his  friend's  eye ; 
"it  will  do  me  good." 

"None   for   me,   Julian,    before 
supper,  and-- I  don't  think,  if - 
if  I  were  you,  I  would  take  any, 
either." 

"  I  am  exhausted,  Harry ;  1  am 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  65 

not  going  to  supper  and    I    need 
it,"  he  said,  fretfully. 

The  other  sighed  and  did  not 
reply.  Goetze  filled  one  of  the 
glasses  and  drank  it  off,  then  he 
resumed  his  seat  by  the  window. 
A  little  later  his  friend  took  leave 
of  him  ;  reaching  the  street  door 
he  hesitated  as  if  about  to  turn 
back,  then  he  lifted  the  latch  and 
passed  slowly  out  into  the  lighted 
street,  closing  the  door  gently 
behind  him. 

The  next  morning  the  studio 
of  Julian  Goetze  was  locked.  It 
remained  locked  all  day,  and 
within,  stretched  upon  the  floor, 
unconscious,  lay  the  gifted  man, 
and  by  his  side  was  an  empty 
flask. 


60  THE  MYSTERY  OF 


V. 


PERHAPS  Julian  Goetze  did  not 
willingly  abide  by  the  somewhat 
fallacious  reasoning  of  his  friend. 
It  is  more  than  probable  that 
each  time  he  succumbed  to  the 
savage  elements  of  his  nature,  he 
did  so  with  reluctance  and  shame, 
with  subsequent  remorse,  and  good 
resolutions  formed  a  score  of  times, 
perhaps,  to  be  as  often  broken. 

As  the  weeks  went  by  he 
became  more  and  more  .involved 
in  this  singular  affair.  In  a  way 
he  had  found  it  possible,  as  his 
friend  had  once  suggested,  to  be 
in  love  with  two  women  at  one 
time. 

When  he  was  with  Eva 
Delorme  his  love  for  the  pure, 
beautiful  girl  seemed  to  take  entire 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  07 

possession  of  his  life.  Evelin 
March,  for  the  time,  was  as  hateful 
to  him  as  his  own  weakness,  or 
was  wholly  forgotten. 

When  in  the  presence  of  Evelin 
March  his  better  self  shrank  away 
before  the  fierce  heredity  within 
him,  and  the  face  of  Eva  Delorme 
became  only  a  dim,  haunting 
ghost  that  taunted  him  with  his 
treachery. 

Of  the  lives  of  these  two  he 
knew  absolutely  nothing.  The 
evident  distress  which  his  refer 
ence  to  relatives  and  friends  had 
occasioned  Eva  during  their  first 
meeting,  had  caused  him  carefully 
to  avoid  the  subject  afterward; 
and  the  other,  who  had  never 
referred  to  her  family,  he  had  not 
cared  to  know.  He  had  never 
even  considered  whether  she  was 
wife,  maid  or  widow,  until  he  sud 
denly  became  aware  that  the  sen 
timent  he  had  awakened  within 


G8  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

her  was  not,  as  he  had  at  first 
supposed,  a  passing  fancy,  but  a 
fierce  passion  of  jealous  and 
tyrannical  love.  She  no  longer 
rallied  him,  and  parried  his  com 
pliments  with  her  light,  pointed 
sarcasm,  as  she  had  done  at  first, 
but  assumed  an  unmistakable 
bearing  of  ownership  and  posses 
sion —  questioning  him  closely 
regarding  other  sitters  and  female 
acquaintances  —  while  he  writhed 
helplessly  in  the  exquisite  misery 
of  a  spell  which  he  felt  himself 
powerless  to  break. 

Thus  far  he  had  never  surren 
dered  himself  entirely  to  this  pas 
sion.  More  than  once  he  had 
hesitated  on  the  very  brink  of  the 
precipice.  Whether  it  was  the 
haunting  face  of  Eva  Delorme  that 
stayed  him,  or  something  in  the 
manner  of  the  other,  he  could  not 
tell. 

One    day    he    suddenly    caught 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  09 

her  in  his  arms.  She  suffered 
his  embrace  for  a  moment,  then 
drew  away  from  him. 

"When  we  are  married,  Paul," 
she  said,  tenderly,  "I  will  take 
you  to  Italy,  where  in  some  beau 
tiful  villa  we  will  give  ourselves 
up  wholly  to  our  love.  I  am  rich, 
Paul,  rich  ;  and  it  is  all  yours,  but 
we  must  wait." 

He  turned  white  and  was  silent. 
The  thought  of  marriage  with  this 
woman  had  never  entered  his 
head.  He  had  already  asked  Eva 
Delorme  to  be  his  wife.  She  had 
long  since  confessed  her  love  for 
him,  but  had  deferred  her  answer 
from  week  to  week,  and  with 
such  evident  distress  of  mind  that 
the  young  artist  felt  that  a  secret 
sorrow  lay  heavily  uj^pn  her  life. 
He  longed  to  fly  with  her  to  some 
far  country,  away  from  it  all,  and 
from  the  dark  shadows  that 
encompassed  his  own. 


70  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

The  similarity  of  features  which 
he  had  at  first  noticed  in  his  two 
sitters  was  at  times  almost  forgot- 

o 

ten  ;  at  others  it  had  recurred  to 
him  and  haunted  him  like  a  night- 

o 

mare.  More  than  once  he  had 
imagined  he  saw  the  fleeting 
something  in  one  woman  that 
reminded  him  of  the  other.  He 
had  dallied  over  the  portraits,  mak 
ing  them  photographically  minute 
for  comparison.  He  had  hesitated 
guiltily  about  showing  either  of 
these  to  the  other  woman.  He 
had  sometimes  longed,  and  always 
dreaded,  to  see  them  side  by  side 
in  person.  They  did  not  always 
come  at  their  appointed  time, 
and  he  was  in  constant  terror 
lest  they  should  meet  in  the 
studio ;  and^.  yet  the  thought 
had  in  it  a  fascination  for  him 
that  made  him  feverish  for  its 
realization.  It  was  strange  that 
they  had  never  met  in  his 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  71 

rooms  —  he  did  not  realize, 
perhaps,  how  strange. 

As  the  months  slipped  away, 
and  he  had  become  more  and 
more  distracted  by  the  contend 
ing  forces  that  were  eating  deeply 
into  his  life,  he  had  grown  almost 
indifferent  to  his  curiosity  and 
only  dreaded  their  meeting. 

It  was  now  October.  The  por 
traits  had  been  practically  finished 
long  since.  Day  after  day  he  had 
resolved  to  send  that  of  Evelin 
March  to  the  dealer  for  framing. 
He  felt  that  he  could  then  break 
away  from  her.  But  still  he  had 
hesitated  and  lingered,  and  now, 
when  in  a  moment  of  recklessness 
he  had  taken  a  step  nearer  the 
brink  of  the  precipice,  she  had 
spoken  to  him  of  their  marriage. 
The  idea  stunned  him  ;  he  could  not 
reply.  She  believed  his  emotion 
had  been  caused  by  her  rebuff,  and 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 


72  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"Don't  be  angry,  Paul,"  she 
whispered. 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  sub 
dued  and  beautiful  as  she  was  at 
that  moment.  He  was  nearer  to 
loving  her  than  he  had  ever  been. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  some  agi 
tation,  "we  must  —  wait." 

That  night  after  supper  he 
sought  Harry  Lawton,  and  unbur 
dened  himself. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Harry?"  he  • 
said,  piteously  ;  "  what  must  I  do  ?  " 

"  Marry  Eva  Delorme  and  take 
a  year's  trip  to  Europe." 

"  But  Eva  hesitates  —  she  has 
never  yet  given  me  a  decided 
answer." 

"  Insist  upon  it.  Then  take  her 
to  the  preacher  at  once,  and  fly." 

"Oh,  Harry,  what  a  villain  I 
am !  Evelin  is  really  in  love  with 
me,  and  I  have  given  her  just 
cause.  I  never  saw  her  look  as 
she  did  to-day." 


E  VELIN  DELORME.  73 

"Nonsense!  She  is  a  schemer 
and  an  actress.  I  did  not  suppose 
she  wanted  to  marry  you,  but 
since  that  is  her  idea  I  can  see 
right  through  her.  This  being 
the  case,  and  your  determination 
to  marry  the  other  fixed,  the 
sooner  you  do  it  and  get  away,  the 
better." 

"  I    am    afraid    you    are   right, 

Harry  ;    there   seems    to    be    no 

'other     course.       I      haven't      the 

moral    courage    to    tell    her    the 

truth." 

"No  need  of  it,  whatever.  It 
wouldn't  help  matters  in  the  least. 
Just  marry  and  go  away  quietly, 
and  don't  return  until  you  get 
ready.  If  you  need  money  draw 
on  me  at  sight." 

"Thank  you,  Harry.  I  expect 
Eva  soon.  I  am  going  to  put 
the  final  touches  on  her  picture, 
and  I  will  urge  my  suit.  If  she 
accepts  me  I  will  take  her  away 


74  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

at  once.  Evelin's  picture  is 
ready  for  framing;  I  will  send  it 
to  the  dealer's  to-morrow.  I  wish 
to  God  I  could  get  away  before 
she  comes  again  !  " 

"Why  not?  You  have  noth 
ing  to  keep  you.  If  the  girl  really 
loves  you  she  will  marry  you  out 
of  hand,  and  be  only  too  glad  to 
cut  loose  from  all  unpleasant  asso 
ciations.  And  now  let's  take  a 
last  look  at  the  pictures,"  he  said, 
briskly. 

They  had  been  walking  slowly 
in  the  direction  of  Goetze's  cot 
tage.  They  entered  now,  and  the 
artist  lighted  the  gas.  Then  he 
arranged  the  portraits  of  the  two 
women  as  he  had  done  for  his 
friend's  inspection  nearly  a  half- 
year  previous.  Both  were  think 
ing  of  that  evening  now.  How 
long  ago  it  seemed.  Harry  sat 
silent  before  them  for  a  long 
time. 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  75 

"  They  are  wonderful  portraits, 
Goetze,"  he  said,  at  length  ;  "but, 
do  you  know,  it  doesn't  seem  to 
me  that  they  have  quite  the  art 
istic  value  of  the  first  sketches." 

"  You  are  right,  Harry ;  they 
are  too  minute.  I  shall  destroy 
some  of  that  to-morrow." 

The  other  was  silent.  After  a 
long  pause  he  said,  thoughtfully, 
"There  is  something  —  I  can't 
tell  where  it  is,  either ;  but  it  is 
certainly  there." 

"  You  refer  to  the  resem 
blance  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  hardly  that,  how 
ever." 

"  I  have  thought  very  little 
about  it  lately.  It  troubled  me 
terribly  for  a  while." 

"Well,  good-night,  Julian," 
said  Lawton,  rising.  "  If  there  are 
to  be  any  orange-blossoms,  I  sup 
pose  I  am  best  man." 

"Yes,  Harry.      Good-night!" 


76  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

Two  days  later,  when  Eva  Del- 
orme  came  to  the  studio,  the 
artist  thought  he  had  never  seen 
her  so  beautiful. 

And  now  the  whiteness  of  his 
own  soul  was  turned  to  view. 
He  resembled  as  little  the  man 
who  had  trembled  before  Evelin 
March,  as  Evelin  March  was  like 
this  beautiful  being  before  him. 

With  all  the  ardor  and  fervid  elo 
quence  of  his  nature  he  urged  his 
suit  ;  and  she,  tearful  and  trem 
bling  before  him,  half  consented. 
He  caught  her  to  his  breast  and 
covered  her  face  with  kisses. 

"My  darling  —  my  darling," 
he  murmured,  "we  will  leave  this 
smoky,  dingy  city ;  I  will  take 
you  to  a  beautiful  land  where  the 
flowers  never  fade  and  the  air  is 
forever  filled  with  their  fragrance. 
Where  the  blue  skies  of  an  eter 
nal  summer  are  above  us,  and  the 
blue  waves  of  a  whispering  sea 


E  VELIN  DEL ORME.  77 

shall  lull  us  to  peace.  There  is  a 
tiny  island  in  the  Mediterranean 
on  the  coast  of  France.  I  was 
there  once;  it  is  like  heaven.  I 
will  take  you  there.  Say  that 
you  will  go,  sweetheart ;  we  will 
start  to-day." 

The  girl  lifted  her  face  to  his, 
and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"It  would  be  heaven,  indeed, 
Julian  ;  but  —  we  must  wait." 

The  artist  started  and  grew 
pale.  Her  final  words  had  been 
the  same  as  those  used  by  Evelin 
March.  She  did  not  seem  to 
notice  his  emotion,  or  mistook  its 
cause. 

"You  know  that  I  love  you, 
Julian,"  she  continued,  "and  I 
will  do  anything  for  your  happi 
ness  ;  but  — oh,  Julian  "  — 

She  burst  into  tears  and  hid 
her  face  on  his  shoulder.  He 
felt  that  some  mystery  of  grief 
weighed  upon  her,  and  he  longed 


78  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

to  urge  her  confidence,  but  re 
frained.  He  soothed  her  gently 
with  tender  words  and  caresses. 
By  and  by  she  grew  calm. 

"Julian,"  she  said,  "  I  am  in  no 
condition  to-day  to  give  you  a  sit 
ting.  I  will  come  to-morrow,  and 
then  —  I  will  give  you  a  final 
answer,  and  —  oh,  my  love,  do 
not  urge  me  further  to-day  ;  I  —  I 
cannot  endure  it." 

Then  suddenly  throwing  her 
arms  about  his  neck  she  pressed 
one  fierce  kiss  upon  his  lips  and 
hurried  from  the  room. 

After  she  was  gone  the  artist 
walked  up  and  down  the  studio 
for  a  long  time  in  deep  thought. 
He  was  wildly  happy  in  her  love, 
and  yet  he  was  troubled.  It  was 
strange  that  her  words  should 
have  been  the  same  as  those  of 
Evelin  March.  Her  manner,  too, 
during  the  last  moment  had  been 
unusual.  Something  about  it 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  79 

had  jarred  him  — almost  remind 
ed  him  of  the  other  woman. 
What  was  it  between  these  two  ? 

By  and  by,  he  noticed  some 
thing  white  lying  on  the  floor. 
It  was  a  woman's  handkerchief  — 
a  bit  of  cambric  and  lace  exhaling 
the  delicate  odor  of  violets.  He 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  repeatedly, 
and  whispered  her  name  over  and 
over,  then  hid  it  away  in  his 
bosom.  He  had  not  noticed,  in 
the  dim  light,  that  in  one  corner, 
in  small,  delicate  letters,  were  the 
initials,  E.  M.  D. 


80  THE  MYSTERY  OF 


VI. 

THE  next  morning  was  bright 
and  crisp,  and  the  artist  felt  bet 
ter  than  he  had  for  many  weeks. 
He  arose  happy  in  the  thought 
that  he  should  again  see  Eva  Del- 
orme  so  soon,  and  in  the  confi 
dence  that  she  would  accept  his 
offer  of  marriage.  He  was  hap 
pier  still  in  the  prospect  of  cutting 
free  from  all  the  feverish  torture 
of  the  past  few  months ;  of  leav 
ing  behind  all  the  unpleasant 
associations  that  clouded  both 
their  lives,  along  with  the  soot, 
and  fumes,  and  temptations  of 
this  grimy  city;  and  of  dreaming 
away  the  winter  with  Eva  on  the 
coast  of  France. 

He  rose  early  and  set  out  for 
a  morning  walk.  His  favorite 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  81 



restaurant  was  near  the  heart  of 
the  city;  he  would  go  there  for 
breakfast.  The  distance  was  con 
siderable,  but  the  brisk  exercise 
was  in  harmony  with  his  thoughts. 
The  blood  was  circulating  rhyth 
mically  through  his  veins ;  he 
threw  back  his  shoulders  and 
breathed  in  the  fresh  frosty  air. 
He  wanted  to  sing.  In  another 
week  he  would  be  away  from 
all  that  was  disagreeable  and 
disgraceful  —  perhaps  to-morrow. 
They  would  spend  a  whole  year  in 
Europe;  may  be  they  would  not 
come  back  at  all. 

After  breakfast  he  met  two  or 
three  acquaintances ;  they  re 
marked  his  unusual  spirits. 

"  You  must  have  made  a  big 
strike,  Goetze ;  can't  you  tell  us  ? " 

"Yes,  by  and  by;  not  now  — 
later." 

"  Congratulations  are  in  order, 
of  course." 


82  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

" Hardly  yet;  pretty  soon." 
He  returned  to  his  studio. 
Eva  had  named  no  hour,  but  he 
hoped  she  would  come  early.  As 
he  opened  the  street  door  he  saw 
a  long,  thin,  delicately  tinted 
envelope  that  had  been  pushed 
beneath  it  in  his  absence.  He 
knew  instinctively  that  it  was 
from  Eva,  and  hastened  into  the 
studio  to  read  it.  It  was  not 
sealed  and  there  was  no  address. 
Trembling  with  agitation  he  tore 
off  the  covering  and  read : 

"  DEAREST  JULIAN  : 

"I  am  feeling  badly  this  morn 
ing,  so  will  not  come  for  my 
sitting  to-day,  and  since  my  por 
trait  is  so  nearly  finished  I  suppose 
there  is  really  no  need  of  my 
coming  again  for  that  purpose. 
I  should  have  come,  however, 
as  I  promised,  had  it  been  possible. 
And  now,  my  dear  friend,  as 
regards  the  decision  which  so 
concerns  us  both,  I  will  ask  your 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  83 

kind  patience  until  to-morrow  eve. 

"On  West  L  —  Street,  between 
1 8th  and  iQth,  near  the  park, 
there  is  a  large,  old-fashioned, 
brick  mansion.  It  is  No.  74, 
east  side — you  cannot  miss  it. 
There  is  an  arc  electric  light 
directly  in  front  of  it. 

"  Go  to  this  place  to-morrow 
night,  exactly  at  six  o'clock.  If 
the  door  is  fastened,  ring,  and  the 
servant  will  admit  you.  There 
wait  in  the  hall-way  until  I  corne. 
If  the  door  is  unlocked,  enter  and 
wait  likewise,  unless  I  am  already 
within  to  meet  you.  Then  I  will 
give  you  my  answer ;  and  oh,  my 
friend,  if  it  be  possible  I  will 
unfold  to  you  the  history  and  sad 
mystery  of  my  poor  life,  which 
you  have  so  kindly  never  sought 
to  know. 

"EVA." 

Julian  read  this  note  again  and 
again  —  now  with  pleasure,  again 
with  anxiety.  Surely  she  meant 
to  accept  him  or  she  would  not 
have  written  thus ;  she  would 


84  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

not  have  appointed  a  meeting 
with  him  at  this  old  mansion. 
And  why  at  this  old  mansion? 
Was  it  her  home  ?  No,  that  was 
not  likely,  or  why  was  he  to  wait 
until  she  came  ?  If  her  home, 
she  would  be  waiting  there  for 
him.  Probably  the  home  of  some 
friend  of  whom  she  had  made  a 
confidant,  and  who  was  in  sympa 
thy  with  her  love  affair.  Yes,  it 
must  be  this ;  and  the  mystery  of 
her  life,  what  could  that  be  but 
some  pre-natal  pledge  of  marriage 
with  one  whom  she  despised,  or 
tyrannical  guardians,  or  both.  She 
would  probably  be  disinherited  if 
she  disobeyed.  What  did  he 
care;  money  was  not  the  end 
of  God's  judgment.  He  would 
take  her  away  from  it  all ;  his 
precious  darling,  and  she  was  ill, 
too ;  she  was  in  pain  and  he  could 
not  go  to  her.  He  longed  to  sit 
by  her  side,  and  hold  her  hand 


EVELIN  DELORME.  85 

and  pour  out  his  love.  He  was 
bitterly  disappointed  at  not  see 
ing  her  to-day,  but  he  almost  for 
got  that,  now,  as  he  thought  of  her 
ill  and  suffering.  He  read  and 
re-read  the  lines  of  her  letter,  and 
tried  to  comfort  himself  with  the 
thought  that  it  was  no  more  than 
a  headache  brought  on  by  her 
mental  strain. 

By  and  by,  something  else 
about  this  letter  began  to  puzzle 
him.  He  had  not  thought  of  it 
at  first,  but  gradually  it  dawned 
upon  him  that  the  handwriting 
was  not  exactly  like  that  upon 
the  card  of  Eva  Delorme.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  it  was  less 
delicate  and  more  irregular.  He 
took  her  card  from  the  little  tray 
on  the  table,  and  compared  them. 
He  decided  that  they  were  the 
same,  after  all.  The  letter  was 
written  hurriedly  and  she  was  ill ; 
but  the  formation  of  the  charac- 


86  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

ters  was  much  the  same.  As  he 
replaced  the  card  his  eye  fell 
upon  that  of  Evelin  March. 
There  was  no  similarity  between 
the  writing  on  the  two  cards,  but 
as  he  glanced  now  from  that  of 
Evelin  March  to  the  letter  he  fan 
cied  one  suggested  faintly  the 
nervous,  dashing  style  of  the 
other.  The  haunting  curiosity 
that  had  once  possessed  him 
returned  for  a  moment.  There 
was  a  strange  fear  in  his  heart 
which  he  could  not  name.  He 
compared  the  two  more  closely, 
and  as  he  did  so  the  fancy  disap 
peared.  It  was  like  certain  faint 
odors  that  are  only  perceptible  at 
a  distance.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"  I  am  a  consummate  ass, 
among  other  things,"  he  mut 
tered. 

His  mind  reverted  to  Eva. 
How  would  he  get  through  the 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  87 

time  until  to-morrow  ?  To-mor 
row  there  would  be  a  sitting  with 
Evelin.  As  he  thought  of  her 
his  face  flushed  with  shame,  and  a 
feeling  of  dread  came  upon  him. 
He  would  send  her  portrait  to  the 
dealer  to-day  —  it  was  finished  — 
then  there  would  be  no  excuse 
for  her  staying.  No,  he  would 
go  away  and  lock  the  studio  all 
day.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to 
allow  himself  to  be  fascinated  by 
her  dashing  beauty.  What  a 
traitor  he  had  been  to  make  even 
a  semblance  of  love  to  this  bold, 
flashy  woman  of  the  world  —  a 
woman  who,  until  recently,  had 
not  even  commanded  his  respect. 

"I  have  been  a  villain,"  he 
muttered,  to  himself;  "a  villain 
and  a  traitor,  but  I  will  be  so  no 
more.  I  will  curb  this  savage 
nature  within  me.  I  will  abstain 
from  drink.  I  will  be  a  new 
man." 


THE  MYSTERY  OF 


He  sealed  his  resolution  with  a 
kiss  pressed  upon  the  little,  tinted 
letter,  then  placing  it  in  an  inner 
pocket  he  arranged  the  canvas  of 
Eva  Delorme  on  the  easel  before 
him  and  walked  backward  and  for 
ward  in  front  of  it  thinking,  paus 
ing  now  and  then  to  gaze  long 
upon  the  beautiful,  saintly  feat 
ures. 

"It  does  not  do  her  justice," 
he  said,  at  last ;  "  there  is  some 
thing  about  the  lips  and  the 
expression  that  I  have  not  caught. 
It  is  too  minute  ;  I  must 
darken  the  ground ;  there  is 
not  enough  relief  —  not  enough 
depth." 

Hastily  removing  his  coat  and 
the  wide  felt  hat  which  he  always 
wore  on  the  street,  he  hung  them 
on  a  rack  in  the  adjoining  room, 
and  donning  his  velvet  studio 
jacket,  returned  to  the  easel. 
Seizing  his  palette  and  brushes 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  89 

he  fell  to  work  rapidly,  and  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  one  who  is  in 
love  with  his  task. 

As  he  dashed  on  the  broad 
sweeps  of  color  from  his  pal 
ette,  the  background  gradually 
assumed  the  effect  of  having 
faded  away,  and  the  rare  face 
before  it  to  have  become  a  thing 
of  flesh  and  blood.  It  was  a  mar 
vel  of  skill.  He  had  never  done 
anything  like  this  before.  He 
became  so  absorbed  in  his  work 
that  he  forgot  the  passing  hours. 
The  background  of  the  portrait 
complete,  he  began  adding  touches 
of  light  and  shadow  and  color  to 
the  drapery,  to  the  hair,  to  the 
perfect  features.  He  felt  that  he 
had  never  painted  half  so 
well.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  inspired.  He  remembered 
the  story  of  the  artist  who  had 
painted  the  portrait  of  his  beloved, 
drawing  the  tints  so  truly  from 


90  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

her  life,  that  when  he  had  finished 
and  turned  to  look  at  her  with  an 
exclamation  of  triumph  on  his  lips, 
she  was  dead.  It  seemed  to  him 
at  this  moment  that  he  was  draw 
ing  his  tints  from  her  very  life. 
That  the  intense  workings  of  his 
brain  must  in  some  manner  affect 
her  own.  He  paused  and  his 
hand  trembled.  She  was  ill; 
what  if  she  were  to  die  !  Pshaw ! 
it  was  but  a  fable.  He  would 
paint  the  picture  as  truly,  but 
only  that  the  world  might  bow 
before  the  beauty  of  his  mistress. 
He  would  exhibit  it  in  Paris,  and 
the  multitude  would  worship  the 
beautiful  face  that  should  win 
him  a  world-wide  fame.  Then  he 
would  take  it  away  from  the  gap 
ing  throng  and  lay  it,  with  the 
fame  it  brought  him,  at  her  feet. 

The  little  clock  on  the  mantel 
had  long  since  chimed  noon,  and 
the  -hour  hand  had  crept  around 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  91 

the  circle  nearly  to  five  before  he 
finally  laid  aside  his  brushes  and 
palette,  and  stepped  back  to  view 
his  finished  work. 

"  It  is  wonderful  —  wonderful," 
he  said,  aloud.  "  Oh,  my  precious 
darling! " 

There  was  a  sound  behind 
him  as  of  some  one  choking.  He 
turned  and  stood  face  to  face  with 
Evelin  March.  She  was  very  pale, 
and  her  eyes  burned  like  two  stars. 

"Who  is  that  woman?"  she 
said,  fiercely. 

He  knew  that  she  had  over 
heard  him,  but  he  endeavored  to 
address  her  calmly.  He  felt  the 
cowardliness  of  his  nature  rising, 
and  he  cursed  himself  inwardly. 

"I  —  I  was  not  expecting  you 
to-day,  Evelin,"  he  stammered; 
"  to-morrow,  you  know,  is  the  day 
for  your  sitting." 

She  did  not  take  her  eyes  from 
the  portrait  ;  she  had  gone  very 


92  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

close  to  it  and  as  she  turned  upon 
him  to  reply  there  was  a  mingled 
look  of  terror  and  ferocity  in  her 
face. 

"  No,  it  is  quite  evident  that 
you  did  not  expect  me,  and  that 
you  were  too  much  absorbed  to 
remember  or  care  when  my  sit 
ting  was  due.  And  now  you  will 
please  to  answer  my  question. 
Who  is  that  woman  ?  " 

What  would  he  not  have  given, 
at  that  moment,  to  have  had  cour 
age  to  say,  "  She  is  to  be  my  wife ;" 
but  the  magnificent  fury  of  the 
woman  before  him,  and  the  recol 
lection  of  the  shameful  words  of 
love  he  had  spoken  to  her,  over 
whelmed  him. 

"She  is  a  —  a  Miss  Delorme,  I 
believe  ;  a  sitter  of  mine,"  he  man 
aged  to  say  at  last. 

"  You  believe!  You  lie  !  You 
know  who  she  is,  and  you  love 
her !  You  love  that  nun-faced 


EVE  LIN  DEL  ORME.  93 

baby  !  I  heard  your  words.  You 
believe  — you  " 

"Evelin,  stop!" 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,  you  trai 
tor!  'Your  precious  darling.' 
Oh,  I  could  kill  her  !  I  will  kill 
her  !  " 

He  could  not  understand  this 
wild  fury,  that  seemed  to  be  half 
inspired  by  a  sort  of  terror.  She 
had  turned  to  the  portrait  again 
and  was  examining  it,  oblivious, 
for  the  moment,  to  all  else.  Then 
suddenly  she  turned  upon  him 
again  with  blazing  eyes. 

"I  will  kill  her!"  she  hissed. 
"I  could  kill  her  with  that,"  and 
she  pointed  to  the  jeweled  sti 
letto  on  the  wall. 

She  was  so  magnificent  in  her 
rage  that  he  could  not  help  admir 
ing  her  through  it  all.  The  love 
for  him  which  had  aroused  this 
tempest  was  so  fierce  that  he  felt 
his  savage  blood  beginning  to 


04  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

throb  with  an  answering  glow. 
He  felt  that  once  more  he  was 
about  to  be  a  traitor  to  all  that 
was  good  within  him.  The 
ground  was  slipping  from  under 
his  feet.  The  glamour  of  her 
voluptuous  beauty  was  filling  his 
brain  like  the  fumes  of  liquor. 
His  eyes,  too,  were  beginning  to 
shine  fiercely,  but  not  with  anger. 

"Evelin,"  he  said,  "listen.  You 
know  I  love  you  and  have  from 
the  first.  She  is  nothing  to  me. 
The  words  that  you  -overheard 
were  addressed  only  to  the  pic 
ture.  It  is  my  masterpiece.  I 
was  not  thinking  of  the  original." 
And  down  in  his  heart  the  small 
voice  was  whispering,  "Coward  — 
traitor  —  fool !  " 

But  the  hot  blood  of  passion 
was  sweeping  through  his  veins, 
and  he  heeded  it  not.  He  put 
out  his  hand  and  laid  it  upon  her 
arm. 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  95 

"Don't  touch  me!"  she  said, 
angrily,  but  the  expression  in  her 
eyes  softened.  He  saw  his  advant 
age  and  followed  it  up. 

"Evelin,"  he  said,  huskily,  "I 
love  you  —  I  love  you!"  Again 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  and 
this  time  she  allowed  it  to 'remain. 
They  were  standing  near  the 
curtained  arch  of  the  adjoining 
room.  He  parted  back  the  heavy 
draperies,  and  gently  drew  her 
within. 

The  savage  blood  was  rioting 
fiercely  within  him.  He  caught 
both  her  hands  in  his  and  drew  her 
to  his  embrace.  She  hid  her  face 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  would  not 
let  him  touch  her  lips.  Other  than 
this  she  made  no  further  resist 
ance.  Half  dragging,  and  half 
carrying  her  he  approached  a 
large  divan  that  stood  in  a 
little  alcove  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room.  Suddenly  he  took 


96  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

her  bodily  in  his  arms  and  they 
sank  down  upon  it  together.  For 
a  second,  only;  then,  with  a  quick 
powerful  effort  she  threw  him 
backward  and  sprang  to  her  feet, 
staring  about  her  with  a  wild, 
startled  look  in  her  eyes. 

Goetze,  wholly  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  the  suddenness  and 
fierceness  of  the  resistance,  was 
for  a  moment  stunned.  As  he 
recovered  himself  and  made  a 
movement  toward  her,  she  gave 
him  one  quick,  piteous  look  —  a 
look  that  recalled  to  him  suddenly 
and  strangely  the  beautiful,  inno 
cent  girl  whom  he  had  wronged 
and  forgotten  —  the  face  of  Eva 
Delorme  —  then,  as  if  seized  with 
sudden  panic  she  sped  from  the 
room,  out  through  the  dim  stu 
dio  and  into  the  dusky  hall-way 
beyond. 

He  heard  the  opening  and  clos 
ing  of  the  outside  door,  and  knew 


E  VELIN  D  EL  OR  ME.  97 

that  she  was  gone.  Then  the 
tide  of  reaction  swept  over  him. 
The  glamour  of  conquest  had 
passed,  and  there  remained  only 
the  shame,  the  treachery  and  the 
remorse. 

With  a  curse  of  anguish  he 
flung  himself  down  upon  the 
floor,  and  lay  groveling  with  his 
face  in  the  dust.  The  moments 
flew  by  unheeded.  An  hour 
passed.  The  electric  lamps  were 
turned  on,  and  a  white  ray  of 
light  shot  in  through  the  half-cur 
tained  window.  The  little  clock 
on  the  mantel  chimed  the  hour. 

The  sound  roused  him.  Start 
ing  to  his  feet  he  gazed  stupidly 
about  him  for  a  moment  as  if 
undecided  what  to  do,  then  seiz 
ing  his  hat  from  the  wall 
rack  he  hurried  out  through  the 
studio  and  the  dark  hall-way  with 
out  pausing  to  remove  his  work 
ing  jacket,  or  to  lock  the  door. 


98  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

Out  into  the  street  where  people 
were  hurrying  home,  chattering 
and  laughing,  and  glancing  only 
for  a  second  at  the  figure  in  the 
velvet  studio  coat  and  broad 
hat,  wondering  a  little  at  the 
dark,  intense  face  that  flashed 
so  swiftly  past  them  toward  the 
glare  and  confusion  of  the  busi 
ness  center. 

He  did  not  know  where  he 
was  going.  He  did  not  care. 
He  was  trying  to  get  away  from 
himself.  He  walked  faster  and 
faster;  twice  he  started  to  run. 

He  was  drawing  nearer  to  the 
bustle  of  the  city.  Small  shops 
were  scattered  along  between  the 
rows  of  brick  dwellings,  and  at 
one  corner  the  light  of  a  saloon 
flared  out  upon  the  pavement. 
Entering,  he  called  for  brandy. 
The  bar-keeper  stared  at  him 
and  set  out  a  bottle  and  a  glass. 
Twice  he  filled  it  to  the  brim  and 


EVELIN  DELORME.  99 

drank  it  off  with  hardly  a  pause 
between.  Then,  throwing  down  a 
silver  dollar,  he  hastened  out  with 
out  waiting  for  change. 

The  shops  were  getting  thick 
er  and  larger.  Dwelling-houses 
were  fewer  and  more  old  fash 
ioned.  Here  and  there  news 
boys  were  crying  the  evening 
papers.  Street-cars,  filled  with 
lights  and  faces,  rolled  swiftly  by 
him  and  in  front  of  him,  jangling 
their  bells.  The  buzz  and  whirl 
of  the  city  was  around  him.  He 
was  drawing  near  to  its  great, 
throbbing  heart. 

Splendid  shop  windows  threw  a 
flood  of  light  upon  the  pavement, 
making  it  like  day.  The  shouts 
of  the  newsboys  and  street  vend 
ers,  the  jangling  of  the  car-bells, 
the  rushing  cabs  and  carriages, 
the  hurrying  crowds,  the  brilliant 
lights,  the  liquor  in  his  brain, 
all  whirled  together  and  sent  the 


100  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

blood  racing  through  his  arteries, 
tingling  to  the  surface  now  and 
again  in  burning  waves  of  misery 
and  shame. 

People  paused  for  a  moment  to 
look  at  the  strange  figure,  and  hur 
ried  on.  Everybody  was  hurry 
ing —  hurrying  somewhere.  He, 
too,  was  hurrying,  as  one  pur 
sued  by  furies  ;  but  where  ? 

Suddenly,  in  front  of  an  illumin 
ated  window,  he  paused ;  why, 
he  did  not  know.  There  was 
nothing  there  to  attract  him.  It 
was  a  place  where  they  sold  shoes. 
Numberless  shoes  were  arranged 
for  display,  and  in  the  midst  of 
them  a  little  white  lamp-globe 
revolving  by  clock-work  with  two 
words  painted  on  it  in  black 
letters  : 

GENTLEMEN'S  SHOES. 

He  read  the  words  over  and  over 
as  the  little  globe  came  round, 


E  VELIN  EtELORME.  101 


and  round,  and- -round:;  V Gentle^ 
men's  shoes  —  Gentlemen's  shoes 
—  Gentlemen's  shoes."  The  thing 
fascinated  him.  It  was  such  a 
funny  little  globe.  It  reminded 
hin  of  a  merry-go-round  he  had 
once  ridden  on  as  a  child.  He 
wondered  how  many  times  a  day 
it  spelled  out  the  words,  and  if  it 
kept  on  going,  there  in  the  dark, 
after  the  place  was  closed.  Then 
he  hurried  on,  but  the  little  white 
globe  and  its  black,  flying  letters 
were  still  before  him.  They  had 
impressed  their  image  upon  his 
brain.  More  than  once  he  re 
peated  the  words  aloud.  They 
seemed  to  have  blended  them 
selves  into  his  whirling  senses 
and  become  a  monotonous  under 
tone. 

"Gentlemen's  shoes  —  Gentle 
men's  shoes — Gentlemen's  shoes." 

Here  and  there  he  stopped 
at  a  saloon  and  drank.  He 


1C2  THE  MYSTER  Y  OF 


drank  .deeply  ana,  the  liquor  was 
strong. 

The  lights  were  beginning  to 
grow  fewer.  He  had  turned  in 
his  walk,  and  was  leaving  the 
whirl  and  glare  behind  him.  He 
did  not  know  what  direction  he 
had  taken.  He  only  knew  that 
he  was  going,  going,  going,  in 
a  mad  effort  to  get  away  from 
himself. 

The  people  that  passed  him  he 
did  not  see.  He  saw  only  the 
white  face  of  Eva  Delorme,  and 
that  piteous  look  in  the  eyes  of 
the  other,  that  had,  in  one  instant, 
revived  within  him,  and  with  ten 
fold  vigor,  all  the  strange,  tortur 
ing  suspicions  he  had  once  felt 
regarding  these  two  mysterious 
lives.  The  faces  that  turned  to 
look  at  him,  he  did  not  notice; 
he  saw  only  these  two,  and  min 
gled  with  them,  and  whirling 
round,  and  round,  and  round,  the 


E  VELIN  DEL ORME.  103 

little  white  globe  with  its  black 
letters,  "Gentlemen's  shoes  — 
Gentlemen's  shoes  —  Gentlemen's 
shoes." 

After  a  long  time  he  noticed 
that  he  was  passing  a  small  sub 
urban  railway  station.  There  was 
a  bustle  of  preparation  as  though 
a  train  was  expected  to  arrive. 
He  crossed  the  shining  steel 
tracks  and  entered.  A  number 
of  people  were  inside,  chattering, 
laughing  and  waiting.  Waiting  to 
go  somewhere.  Everybody  was 
going  somewhere  —  everybody  but 
him.  Suddenly  a  group  in  one 
corner  attracted  him  as  had  the 
lighted  window  and  the  revolving 
globe. 

A  hatchet-faced  woman,  wear 
ing  a  faded  straw  hat  of  antique 
pattern,  a  cloak  to  match,  and  a 
soiled  and  largely  plaided  dress, 
was  vainly  endeavoring  to  still 
the  cries  of  a  miserable  babe 


104  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

swaddled  in  an  assortment  of 
dirty  garments. 

Two  children,  of  ages  evidently 
beginning  at  prompt  and  regu 
lar  intervals  from  the  one  in  her 
arms,  extended  from  her  at  right- 
angles  on  the  bench,  their  legs 
straddled  about  with  a  childish  dis 
regard  of  modesty.  They  were 
asleep  —  at  least  one  of  them  was, 
and  the  other  was  equally  silent. 

By  and  by,  the  woman  arose 
and  walked  the  floor  with  the 
babe.  At  this,  the  child  who  was 
not  asleep  arose  also  and  stared 
at  its  mother  with  wide,  round 
eyes.  Then,  as  she  approached  it 
and  turned  in  her  march,  it  began 
to  follow  her,  keeping  close  be 
hind  and  in  step. 

The  other  slept  on  uncon 
sciously.  The  lamps  flared  and 
flickered ;  the  babe,  partially 
soothed,  sobbed  and  moaned,  and 
the  squalid  pair  marched  on. 


E  VELIN  DEL  OK  ME.  105 

Begotten  in  bliss  —  brought 
forth  in  suffering  —  reared  in 
privation. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  prolonged, 
shrill  shriek  in  the  night,  a  tram 
pling  of  many  feet,  a  shouting  of 
discordant  voices,  and  the  mid 
night  train  is  snorting  at  the 
platform. 

Hastily  the  mother  gathers  up 
the  sleeping  child,  and  bidding 
the  other  cling  close  to  her  skirts, 
hurries  out  into  the  night,  past 
the  fiery-eyed  Polyphemus,  on 
toward  the  coaches  behind. 

The  people  that  are  going 
somewhere  jostle  against  her  in 
their  haste  to  get  into  the  coaches 
and  secure  seats.  Mechanically 
the  artist  follows.  Everybody  is 
going  somewhere ;  he  will  go,  too. 

The  monster  ahead  begins  to 
puff  and  grunt,  and  the  bell  that 
is  fastened  to  its  back,  to  ring 
wildly. 


106  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

The  men  who  are  loading  bag 
gage  shout  and  swear  and  hurl 
coarse  jokes  at  each  other,  and 
the  midnight  train  begins  to 
move.  The  bell  still  clangs  fran 
tically,  the  demon  puffs  and 
grunts  faster  and  faster,  and  the 
light  from  its  one  fearful  eye  pen 
etrates  farther  and  farther  into 
the  darkness  ahead. 

Faster,  and  faster,  and  faster  — 
the  sound  of  the  wheels  falling 
into  a  regular  measure,  until  it  has 
become  a  weird,  rhythmical  mon 
otone. 

"  Gentlemen's  shoes  —  Gentle 
men's  shoes — Gentlemen's  shoes." 

Then  there  is  a  momentary 
flare  of  light,  a  final,  blood-curd 
ling  scream,  and  the  one-eyed 
demon  —  the  faded  and  soiled 
woman  —  the  sobbing  baby  — 
the  sleeping  child  —  the  marching 
child  with  the  big,  round  eyes  — 
the  people  who  are  going  some- 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORME.  107 

where,  and  the  artist  who  is  going 
nowhere,  are  on  their  way. 

He  has  taken  a  seat  facing 
the  faded  woman,  and  is  uncon 
sciously  studying  her  face.  She 
is  still  hushing  the  babe  to  rest. 
On  one  side  the  sleeper  is  hud 
dled  up  against  her.  On  the 
other,  next  to  the  window  and 
resting  upon  its  knees,  the  child 
with  the  big,  round  eyes  stares 
out  into  the  darkness. 

The  coach  is  warm.  The  heat 
and  the  strong  liquor  are  begin 
ning  to  tell  on  him.  The  face 
before  him  begins  to  mingle  with 
all  sorts  of  impossible  fancies. 
The  roar  of  the  flying  train  is  in 
his  ears,  but  it  seems  the  roar  of 
some  mighty  sea  that  is  about  to 
overwhelm  him.  The  conductor, 
coming  through,  shakes  his  arm 
to  rouse  him. 

"  Tickets!" 

"Oh,   yes!"  —  he   forgot.      He 


108  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

thrusts  a  bill  into  the  conductor's 
hand.  "Keep  the  change,  I  will 
ride  it  out." 

The  drowsiness  is  again  steal 
ing  upon  him.  He  still  sees  the 
wretched  face  before  him  and  is 
studying  it ;  but  always  between 
them  are  those  other  faces  —  the 
face  of  Eva  Delorme  and  of  Evelin 
March  —  and  the  piteous,  fright 
ened  look  that  rests  now  upon  one, 
now  upon  the  other, —  and  now 
the  two  are  melting  —  melting 
into  one,  like  the  blending  out 
lines  of  a  dissolving  view — and 
both  fade  out  into  the  little  white 
globe  with  its  whirling  black 
words,  that  the  hum  of  the  train 
flying  through  the  night  keeps 
repeating  over,  and  over,  and  over, 
—  "  Gentlemen's  shoes  —  Gentle 
men's  shoes — Gentlemen's  shoes." 


E  VEL  IN  D  EL  OR  ME.  109 


VII. 

THE  sky  was  beginning  to  get 
gray  with  morning  when  the  night 
express,  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  its  starting  point, 
rushed  into  a  little  station  and 
halted  a  moment  for  water,  pant 
ing  and  fretting  to  be  on  its  way. 
A  figure  stepped  from  it  to  the 
platform,  staggering  a  little  as 
from  the  motion  of  the  train.  It 
was  a  young  man.  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  his  face  stained  with 
the  grime  of  travel.  His  soft  felt 
hat  and  his  short,  velvet  coat 
were  covered  with  cinders  and 
dust.  One  would  hardly  have  rec 
ognized  the  artist,  Julian  Goetze. 

The  station  agent  stood  a  few 


110  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

feet  away  with  a  lantern.  He 
looked  up  somewhat  astonished  as 
this  odd  figure  approached  him. 
"  Some  drunken  showman,"  he 
thought. 

The  man  came  closer,  as  if  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  How  far  back  to  Saint  Louis  ? " 
he  asked,  anxiously. 

"One  hundred  and  fifty-three 
miles." 

"When  can  I  get  a  train  ?  " 

"At  eleven-thirty,  if  it's  on 
time." 

"  Is  it  usually  on  time  ? " 

"Hardly  ever;  four  hours  late 
yesterday." 

"Good  God!  Is  there  no  other 
train  ?" 

"There's  a  cattle  train  lying  up 
there  on  the  switch  now.  Pulls 
out  soon  as  this  one  leaves." 

"And  what  time  will  that  reach 
Saint  Louis  ? " 

"No     telling;     depends     upon 


E  VEL  IN  DEL  OR  ME.  1 1 1 

what  luck  it  has  ;  possibly  by 
four  or  five  o'clock." 

The  artist  did  not  wait  to  hear 
more.  Anything  was  better  than 
remaining  here  on  an  uncertainty. 
He  sped  away  up  the  track  to 
where  lay  the  long  line  of  waiting 
cars. 

He  had  been  awakened  by  the 
stopping  of  the  train,  and  a  reali 
zation  of  affairs  had  flashed  over 
him  like  lightning.  He  was  far 
away  from  Saint  Louis,  and  at  six 
o'clock  that  night  he  had  an 
appointment  with  Eva  Delorme. 

The  effects  of  his  self-abase- 
mei.t  and  the  strong  liquor  had 
worn  away.  The  fever  and  the  de 
lirium  of  last  night  were  as  a  bad 
dream.  He  would  hasten  back  to 
Eva.  He  had  sinned  —  fallen  al 
most  to  the  lowest  depth  —  but  it 
was  over  now.  He  would  see 
Evelin  March  no  more.  If  Eva 
accepted  him  they  would  go  away 


112  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

at  once.  Oh,  if  kind  Providence 
would  but  help  him  to  reach  the 
appointment  in  time  ! 

The  conductor  whom  he  asked, 
noting  his  anxiety,  assured  him 
that  it  was  quite  probable  they 
would  reach  the  city  by  five 
o'clock. 

It  was  growing  light  rather 
slowly.  The  sky  was  overcast 
with  clouds,  and  the  air  had  the 
feeling  of  a  storm.  It  seemed  to 
Julian  that  the  train  crept  along 
like  a  farm  wagon.  For  a  long 
time  he  looked  out  at  the  gray 
monotonous  landscape,  then  he  lay 
down  on  the  cushioned  benches 
of  the  caboose  and  tried  to  sleep. 
Now  and  then  he  would  doze  a 
little,  but  his  mind  was  too  full  of 
anxiety  and  impatience  to  obtain 
rest.  Terrifying  dreams  forced 
themselves  upon  him,  and  he 
awoke  often,  sick  and  frightened. 

And    so    through    that    dreary 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  113 

autumn  day  the  heavy  train  rum 
bled  along  across  the  wide  stretch 
of  country  that  divided  him  from 
that  which  fate  was  at  that  mo 
ment  busily  preparing  —  an  expe 
rience  as  strange,  as  weird,  as 
terribly  fantastic  as  was  ever 
accorded  to  human  being  before. 

The  little  Swiss  cottage  of 
Julian  Goetze  was  very  silent  that 
clay.  All  through  the  forenoon 
no  one  entered,  although  the 
street  door  was  unlocked  and  the 
studio  door  was  open.  As  the 
afternoon  wore  away,  the  clouds 
and  smoke  that  hung  heavily  over 
the  city  seemed  to  settle  lower 
and  lower,  until  within  the  narrow 
hall-way  it  was  almost  dark. 

Just  after  the  clock  on  the 
mantel  of  the  inner  room  had 
chimed  three,  a  cloaked  figure 
passed  through  the  hall  and  en 
tered  the  studio.  It  was  Evelin 
March.  Her  eye  fell  upon  the 


114  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

portrait  of  Eva  Delorme  still  rest 
ing  upon  the  easel,  and  she 
glanced  about  hastily  for  the  art 
ist.  He  was  not  there.  For 
some  reason  she  did  not  remove 
her  wrap,  but  stood  still,  listening. 
A  wagon  rattled  by  outside,  but 
within  all  was  silent. 

"Paul!"  she  called,  softly. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  He  has  stepped  out  for  a  mo 
ment,"  she  thought;  "he  will  be 
back  presently." 

She  approached  the  face  on  the 
easel,  cautiously,  as  though  it 
were  alive. 

"  I  wonder  who  she  is,"  she 
muttered  ;  "  I  have  seen  her  some 
where  before  —  or  I  have  dreamed 
it.  He  said  it  was  his  master 
piece.  I  hate  her  !  " 

She  seated  herself  before  the 
picture,  studying  it  silently.  Lit 
tle  by  little  a  fear  invaded  her 
bosom  —  a  strange  fear,  such  as 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  115 

she  had  never  known  before.  A 
fear  of  this  portrait,  of  the  lonely 
room,  of  the  weapons  upon  the 
wall.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
something  horrible  was  about  to 
happen. 

She  started  up  and  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  room  to 
drive  away  this  feeling.  Why 
did  the  artist  not  come?  She 
parted  back  the  draperies  and 
looked  into  the  room  beyond. 
He  could  not  have  gone  far;  his 
coat  was  hanging  upon  the  rack, 
and  his  velvet  studio  jacket  was 
gone.  Entering,  she  approached 
the  coat  and  put  her  hand  against 
it  in  a  sort  of  caress. 

How  she  loved  him !  She 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  or 
forgiven  the  offered  insult  of  yes 
terday.  Turning  back  the  gar 
ment  she  touched  her  lips  to  the 
silk  lining  where  it  had  covered 
his  heart.  As  she  did  so  she 


116  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

noticed  the  tinted  edge  of  a  nar 
row  envelope  in  the  inner  pocket. 
In  an  instant  she  was  seized  with 
a  passion  of  curiosity.  All  her 
jealousy  and  suspicions  of  the 
sweet-faced  girl  in  gray  came 
rushing  back.  She  listened  at 
the  curtained  arch  for  a  moment, 
but  there  was  no  sound  of  ap 
proaching  footsteps ;  then,  her 
eyes  flashing,  and  her  cheeks  flam 
ing  guiltily,  she  snatched  the  deli 
cate  missive  from  its  concealment, 
and  with  trembling  hands  tore  it 
from  its  covering.  In  another 
instant  her  suspicions  were  veri 
fied.  The  woman  reading  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  become  de 
ranged. 

"  Coward  !  —  liar!  —  cur  !  "  she 
screamed. 

She  tore  the  letter  in  halves, 
crumpled  it  in  her  hands,  and 
flung  it  upon  the  floor.  Then 
suddenly  becoming  calm  she  gath- 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  117 

ered  up  the  pieces  hastily  and 
concealed  them  in  her  bosom.  A 
look  of  peculiar  cunning  had 
come  into  her  eyes. 

"So  he  is  going  to  meet  her," 
she  muttered,  savagely ;  "  but  they 
will  not  meet  alone.  I,  too,  will 

go  to  No.  74  West  L Street, 

east  side."  Then  she  hesitated. 
"  Perhaps  I  would  not  be  admit 
ted,"  she  thought. 

Plans  for  overcoming  this  obsta 
cle  flashed  through  her  brain  like 
lightning.  She  seized  upon  what 
appeared  to  her  the  most  feasible. 

"I  will  counterfeit  her,"  she 
said,  feverishly ;  "  I  will  disguise 
myself." 

She  hurried  back  into  the  stu 
dio  and  stood  for  a  moment  before 
the  easel.  Yes,  yes  ;  she  could 
do  it.  Her  figure  was  much  the 
same,  dress  gray  and  plain,  hair 
low  upon  the  forehead  —  a  veil 
would  make  it  complete. 


118  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"Oh,"  she  muttered,  "how  I 
hate  your  baby  face !  Look !  I 
will  kill  you,  you  fool  — you  fool !  " 

Again  that  sickening,  fascin 
ating  terror  of  this  unknown 
woman  came  upon  her.  Hastily 
turning  from  the  portrait  she  list 
ened  a  second  for  the  artist's  step. 
As  she  did  so  her  eye  caught  the 
weapons  on  the  wall.  Without  a 
moment's  hesitation  she  plucked 
the  jewel-hilted  stiletto  from  its 
place,  and  concealing  it  beneath 
her  cloak  hurried  from  the  house. 


An  hour  later  the  artist  burst 
into  the  studio.  His  bloodshot 
eyes,  and  face  blackened  with 
travel,  made  him  almost  unrecog 
nizable.  Hurrying  through  to  his 
room  beyond  he  glanced  eagerly 
at  the  clock.  It  was  on  the 
stroke  of  five. 

"Just    time    to    make    myself 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  1 19 

presentable  and  reach  the  place 
by  six,"  he  thought. 

Then,  turning,  he  surveyed  him 
self  in  a  mirror. 

"Good  heavens,  what  a  specta 
cle  I  am !  People  must  have 
thought  I  was  a  maniac  —  and 
they  were  not  far  from  wrong  — 
but  I  am  all  right  now.  I  am 
gcing  to  Eva  and  confess  my  vil 
lainy,  and  ask  her  forgiveness.  I 
will  swear  my  faith  to  her.  She 
will  forgive  me  —  she  must  for 
give  me.  And  as  for  Evelin,  all 
is  over  with  her  after  what  passed 
last  night.  Last  night !  was  it  only 
last  night  ?  It  seemed  an  age." 

He  made  a  quick  motion  as  if 
to  drive  away  an  unpleasant  mem 
ory,  then  throwing  off  his  outer 
garments  he  opened  the  door  of  a 
little  dressing-room. 

"  I  will  bathe,  and  confess,  and 
be  born  again,"  he  said,  with  a  lit 
tle  laugh. 


120  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

Twenty  minutes  afterward  he 
emerged  a  new  man  in  reality — as 
far  as  outward  appearances  were 
concerned.  Cleanly  shaven  and 
scrupulously  attired,  no  one  would 
have  recognized  in  him  the  dusty, 
wild-looking  figure  of  an  hour 
before.  He  glanced  at  the 
clock. 

"  Yes  —  I  have  plenty  of  time," 
he  thought.  "No.  74  West  L  — 
Street,  east  side ;  I  will  look  at 
her  letter  again  to  make  sure. 
Bless  her  sweet  face  !  I  can  hardly 
wait  until  I  see  it  again.  If  she 
only  is  not  ill,  but  —  good  God,  it 
is  gone ! " 

He  had  looked  in  the  breast 
pocket  of  his  street  coat,  that  still 
hung  on  the  rack  ;  it  was  empty. 
He  stood  holding  the  coat,  with  a 
puzzled  expression  on  his  face, 
trying  to  think. 

"  I  know  I  put  it  in  that  pocket 
—  I  recollect  it  distinctly,"  he 


E  VELIN  DEL  OR  ME.  121 

said,  aloud  ;  "  perhaps  it  fell  out 
when  I  took  off  my  coat." 

He  looked  hastily  about  the 
floor,  then  hurried  out  into  the 
studio,  searching  rapidly  and  care 
fully.  His  face  grew  more  and 
more  troubled.  Could  anyone 
have  come  in  during  his  absence 
and  picked  it  up  ?  Perhaps  Harry 
had  been  here ;  if  so,  it  was  safe. 
As  he  stood  there  reflecting,  try 
ing  to  solve  the  mystery,  he  was 
looking  directly  at  the  weapons 
upon  the  wall.  All  at  once  he 
noticed  that  there  was  something 
different  about  their  arrangement. 
Something  was  missing.  It  was 
the  dagger !  Then  it  all  came 
to  him.  "Evelin!"  he  shouted. 
"  Good  God  !  " 

He  had  wasted  valuable  time 
searching  for  the  letter.  He 
could  hardly  reach  the  place  of 
appointment  by  six  unless  he  could 
catch  some  kind  of  a  vehicle. 


122  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

"My  God  —  my  God  !  she  will 
kill  her  —  she  will  kill  her!  and 
all  through  my  treachery." 

He  had  fled  from  the  house 
and  was  now  speeding  wildly 
westward.  No  cab  was  in  sight 
and  he  could  not  wait  to  find  one. 

"  She  will  kill  her  —  she  will  kill 
her!"  he  groaned,  over  and  over. 
"  Oh,  my  God  —  my  God  !  " 


EVELIN  DELORME.  123 


VIII. 

AT  a  quarter  before  six,  a 
woman  ascended  the  marble  steps 
of  the  old  mansion  at  No.  74 
West  L—  -Street,  east  side. 
She  wore  a  plain  dress  of  silver- 
gray  material,  a  rich  Persian 
shawl,  a  neat  walking  hat,  her 
face  thickly  veiled.  Reaching  the 
door,  she  laid  her  gloved  hand  on 
the  knob,  then  hesitated,  as  if 
undecided  whether  to  enter  at 
once  or  ring. 

The  heavy  clouds  hung  oppress 
ively  low,  and  it  was  already 
dusk.  A  few  flakes  of  snow  were 
falling,  but  it  was  not  cold. 

All  at  once  the  woman  removed 
her  hand  from  the  door,  slipped 
off  her  shawl  and  threw  it  across 
her  arm.  As  she  did  so  some 


124  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

thing  glittered  bright,  which  she 
hastily  concealed  beneath  the 
shawl.  As  she  stood  now  she 
was  the  exact  counterpart  of  Eva 
Delorme.  Then  without  further 
hesitation  she  laid  hold  of  and 
turned  the  heavy  knob  of  the  mas 
sive  black  door.  It  yielded  noise 
lessly,  and  she  entered,  closing  it 
as  noiselessly  behind  her. 

Within  all  was  dark.  A  faint 
ray  of  light  crept  in  through  the 
transom,  penetrating  a  few  feet 
into  the  blackness.  She  stood 
almost  against  the  door,  listening 
and  hardly  breathing.  All  was 
silent.  She  had  expected  the 
other  to  be  there  before  her,  wait 
ing  for  his  coming.  She  put  out 
her  hand  and  felt  about  her.  She 
touched  a  chair  at  her  left  and 
softly  laid  her  shawl  upon  it, 
keeping  firm  hold  upon  the  keen 
weapon  she  had  carried  beneath 
it.  She  listened  again ;  still  no 


EVE  LIN  DELORME.  125 

sound.  She  was  growing  impa 
tient.  She  took  a  few  steps  for 
ward,  keeping  one  hand  extended 
in  front  of  her  to  avoid  collision. 
Then  she  turned  and  retraced  her 
steps. 

She  had  been  very  cool  thus  far, 
but  she  was  losing  control  of  her 
self.  Why  did  she  not  come? 
She  had  said  in  her  letter  that 
she  was  ill  —  pshaw!  it  was  but 
a  trick  to  arouse  his  sympathy. 
She  must  come  —  she  must  come ! 

She  paced  back  and  forth  in 
the  small  space  which  she  had 
explored  and  found  free  from  ob 
struction.  Three  steps  forward 
and  turn  —  three  steps  back  and 
turn  ;  pausing  each  time  to  hold 
her  breath  and  listen,  while  the 
fingers  of  her  left  hand  involun 
tarily  crept  down  and  pressed 
against  the  keen  point  of  the 
dagger  until  it  pierced  through  her 
glove  and  entered  the  tender  flesh. 


126  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

Suddenly  a  white  ray  of  light 
shot  through  the  transom  above 
her,  falling  at  an  angle  against  a 
projection  in  the  wall  at  her  left, 
and  dimly  illuminating  the  entire 
place.  It  was  six  o'clock,  and  the 
large  arc  light  just  outside  was 
turned  on.  Then,  as  she  reached 
the  door  and  whirled  quickly  in 
her  march,  she  saw  her  for  whom 
she  waited  standing  at  the  ex 
treme  farther  end  of  the  long 
hall.  Between  them  was  what 
appeared  to  be  a  narrow  and  orna 
mented  archway. 

She  could  dimly  distinguish  the 
figure  clad  in  gray.  The  face, 
like  her  own,  was  veiled.  She 
noticed  with  quick  satisfaction 
that  her  disguise  was  perfect  — 
the  counterpart  was  exact  even 
to  the  smallest  detail. 

Without  hesitation,  and  con 
cealing  the  dagger  in  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  she  advanced  quickly 


E  VELIN  DEL ORME.  127 

and  silently  toward  her  rival,  who, 
somewhat  to  her  surprise,  instead 
of  fleeing  or  crying  out,  also  ad 
vanced.  She  was  going  to  try 
strength  with  her. 

"I  will  kill  her  with  a  blow," 
she  muttered. 

They  were  now  within  a  few 
feet  of  each  other  —  the  orna 
mented  arch  exactly  between  them. 
Suddenly  Evelin  March  snatched 
the  dagger  from  its  concealment 
and  raised  it  aloft  to  strike.  As 
she  did  so  her  rival  made  pre 
cisely  the  same  movement,  and 
something  glittered  in  her  hand 
also.  Both  took  a  quick,  forward 
step,  and  each,  at  the  same  in 
stant,  struck  fiercely  with  a  swing 
ing,  downward  blow. 

A  hissing  metallic  report,  a  low 
moan  and  the  sound  of  a  falling 
body  —  then  silence. 

A  moment  later  the  hall  door 
burst  open  for  a  second  time,  and 


128  THE  MYSTERY  OF 

in  the  flood  of  electric  light  that 
poured  in,  Julian  Paul  Goetze  saw 
a  gray,  veiled  figure,  stretched 
upon  the  floor,  the  gloved  hand 
clasping  a  jeweled  hilt,  the  blade 
of  which  was  buried  in  her  bosom. 
A  stream  of  crimson  was  discolor 
ing  the  fabric  of  her  dress,  and 
spreading  in  a  dark  pool  on  the 
rich  carpet. 

Rushing  forward  he  caught  up 
the  prostrate  form  and  tore  away 
the  veil. 

Then,  as  if  by  magic,  a  revela 
tion  swept  over  him  in  one  mighty 
wave  of  horror.  The  strange, 
piteous  look  he  had  once  seen  on 
the  face  of  Evelin  March  was 
again  before  him,  and  while  he 
gazed  he  saw  it  melting — melt- 
ing,  almost  insensibly,  like  the 
blending  outlines  of  a  dissolving 
view  —  into  the  saintly  loveliness 
of  Eva  Delorme. 

The  mists  of  doubt,  the   shad- 


E  VELIN  DEL  ORA1E.  129 

ows  of  suspicion,  and  the  fever  of 
curiosity  that  had  troubled  him 
during  those  feverish  months,  were 
suddenly  swept  away.  Eva  Del- 
orme  —  Evelin  March  —  one  and 
the  same.  One  body,  one  soul, 
one  heart ;  by  some  strange  freak 
of  nature  —  some  wild  mental 
vagary  or  devilish  witchery  of  which 
he  could  not  know  —  made  two  in 
life,  but  only  one  in  death. 

Above  her  was  a  heavy  French- 
plate  mirror,  in  an  ornamented 
frame,  cracked  entirely  across. 
From  its  polished  surface  the  self- 
aimed,  glancing  dagger  had  found 
its  way  to  the  one  troubled  heart 
of  those  two  strange  lives,  and 
brought  to  it  silence  and  restful- 
ness  forever. 


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194? 


NOV    27  1945 


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